


Pyotr, Petya, Peter

by lilyblaney



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: And HYDRA's HYDRA soooo, BAMF Natasha Romanov, Brainwashing, Bucky Barnes Feels, But also healing!, F/M, Gen, Gen because beyond the first chapter the focus is family not romance, Hydra, I may end up adding more characters but these are the ones I know will show up, Implied/Referenced Anti-Semitism, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Jewish Bucky Barnes, Natasha Feels, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter can speak Russian cause he's Russian, Precious Peter Parker, Richard Parker is a good dad, all off-screen though, cause they all deserve to be happy, eventually, ie I ignore the whole bruce/natasha thing, in the sense that it never happens, it's kinda a fix it for Civil War, mama bear Natasha Romanov, some gore but it's minimal, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-02-07 11:17:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 41,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12840033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilyblaney/pseuds/lilyblaney
Summary: It started with Natasha discovering love. But love—in any of its forms—was a freedom she neither had nor deserved, and her attempt to create it came to haunt her.AKA how Bucky, Nat, and Peter were a family, were separated, and, hopefully, will be able to reunite at some point in this ridiculous mess of a plot.Inspired by the fantastic savya398's storyLittle SpiderOriginally called 'Coming Together Again'





	1. To love

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Little Spider](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4859462) by [savya398](https://archiveofourown.org/users/savya398/pseuds/savya398). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heya! So, I started another story. Kinda out of nowhere, I know. I'm trying to write a million stories right now, but this one really kicked off!
> 
> Anyway, rating and reason for the rating: T, but for mature teen etc. This is mostly for
> 
> 1) referenced/implied rape. Very minimal. Not described. But if you don't want to read that, this wouldn't be a good story for you.
> 
> 2) some gore, i.e references to blood. Natasha and Bucky are assassins, after all. Part of the job.
> 
> 3) language! Again, fairly minimal. Mostly for humor (or attempted humor anyway).
> 
> Is there anything else you guys need to know? Idk, ask me questions through the review section or whatever if you want to know something.
> 
> Oh, and this was inspired by Little Spider because that story is where I saw the idea of Bucky and Natasha being Peter's parents. Also some other general ideas of the story are homaged here. Basically this story was created with the same spirit. Or this is my idea of how things would go if Bucky and Natasha were Peter's parents. Anyway, Little Spider's an adorable story written by an awesome author, so definitely go check it out! (And sorry Peter isn't in this chapter. I think he'll show up in the next one.)
> 
> Enjoy the story!

 

“How would you describe love?” the Red Room’s director asked, breaking the long silence and leaning back.

Natalia Alianovna Romanova shifted in her stiff stance before the desk, hiding confusion behind an immaculate, blank mask. This was not what she’d expected to be called for. "An emotion people feel for others that clouds their judgment and makes them easy to manipulate. Love is weakness, Vasilisa Alexeyevna.” Natalia addressed her properly and formally, as was appropriate. Other Russians could, once familiar enough, call her Vasilisa or Vassa; foreigners, in their ignorance, would use Madame Ivashina or even Madame B, in a strange mutilation of her name, Василиса; but Natalia would always say Vasilisa Alexeyevna. Regardless of how high she rose in rank and skill, Natalia would always be lower.

Vasilisa regarded her carefully. Her eyes, grey as the cold concrete of the facility floors, pierced Natalia’s own, and she leaned forward just slightly, back still straight and poised. “And what of what others say?” she challenged.

“Some say it’s strength. Others say it is ‘what makes life worthwhile.’ But even fools recognize the danger of it.” Natalia allowed some of her disdain to creep into her tone.

Vasilisa flicked a hand as if swatting away a fly. “Yes, yes, but many believe the benefits outweigh the hardships, do they not?”

Natalia hesitated and begrudgingly conceded. “They do.”

“So,” she said, leaning back once again. “How do I know _you_ will never fall in love?”

Natalia fought the urge to become defensive and stated her reasoning with calm confidence. ”People in love lose control of their emotions. I will never allow that to happen to me.”

Vasilisa rapped her fingers on the wood of her desk. “They say love unavoidable. It comes upon you suddenly and cannot be easily shaken.”

“They also have no emotional intelligence or training. I am your best student.”

“Indeed,” Vasilisa said slowly, and Natalia was pleased by the endorsement.  
The director’s eyes refocused on the person in front of her, and Natalia knew a decision had been made. She straightened minutely.

“Instead of graduating with the rest of your class,” Vasilisa continued, “you will continue and be trained as the next Black Widow. A representative of a highly accomplished and _secret_ organization will be here soon to discuss a possibility in your new training regime. He’s been watching you this week. I know you have not disappointed me.”

Natalia could hear the warning in her tone. “I will not fail.”

Vasilisa nodded and turned to the papers on her desk. Natalia stepped aside and waited dutifully, but her mind spun with triumph and anticipation. To become a Black Widow was monumental. Even to be one of the few considered for this position was an honor. Most failed in the training, and the last Black Widow had been active 80 years ago, before the turn of the century. She had been instrumental in prosecuting the revolutionaries of the time, and some in the intelligence community said that if she hadn’t died, the Revolution of 1905 never would have happened. This was what Natalia was determined to live up to.

There was a knock on the door, and Natalia stood ever so slightly taller. Vasilisa simply swept her papers to the side of the desk and stood, motioning the guard at the door to open it.

The man who entered was broad in the shoulders and stern in expression, a man who'd fought violence with violence. His clothes were military style, though his rank was not indicated. Despite that all, however, Natalia didn’t feel very intimidated by him. Perhaps it was her training; perhaps it was his height, noticeably shorter than her.

“Vasilisa, it's a pleasure to meet at last," the man said, removing his gloves to offer a hand respectfully.

She took it, and they shook hands. "The pleasure's all mine, commander," she said, returning his greeting.

They both sat. “Do you happen to be related to Vasily Danilovich Sokolovsky, Marshall of the Soviet Union?” Vasilisa said, starting the conversation off pleasantly.

"As far as I know, no, I am not," the commander said, “but my family is proud to share his family name." Natalia could tell he liked that Vasilisa had noticed the connection by the pleased look in his eyes.

"As they should be,” Vasilisa said. She switched subjects deftly, fingers once again drumming the desk quietly and slowly. She exuded competence and control. "How has your stay with us been so far?"

“My congratulations,” he said, face once again stern. “You run an accomplished academy. Though your Black Widow certainly stands out.” He motioned his hand towards Natalia without looking. She didn’t mind, especially with his flattering use of her potential title, and simply continued to follow the conversation and their body language closely.

“Do you agree then?” Vasilisa’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

He folded his hands and leaned back in his chair. “I will do it,” the commander said finally. “As long as your student will not attempt to seduce him.”

“I am confident that Natasha will be perfectly professional. I interviewed her myself,” Vasilisa said, motioning her student over.

“I only seduce my enemies, commander,” Natalia said strongly, having stepped forward.

Vasilisa turned the question back on the commander. “Yours won’t coerce mine?”

“The Asset is under my control,” the commander said, stiff but self-satisfied.

* * *

Natalia stood in the training room, waiting for the Asset. It had been a long day of training, but she was surprisingly excited. This new instructor, the American as her fellow students had taken to calling him, would be leading her through the last, most intensive training she needed to graduate as the Black Widow, and Natasha couldn’t be more ready to succeed. But despite her excitement—and nervousness—, she showcased the value of her training and projected a calm and above all emotionless air.

Just as she had begun to wonder if the American would not come, the door across from her swung open, and he walked in. His eyes scanned the room and her, checking for threats, exits, potential weapons. Natalia was pleased when he scanned her longer than usually required for a weapon, indicating he considered her dangerous enough to be a potentially serious threat. Good.

As he set his bag beside the door, she eyed him discretely. He was tall, strong, like someone who’d rely on their strength to win a fight. His metal arm presented an especially unique threat. In fact, the arm appeared to be advanced, so it likely had special capabilities. She wondered if he had been improved and enhanced through experimentation, as she had been.

He stopped in front of her, and they looked into each other’s eyes. His were blank and emotionless, dead, and Natalia knew hers were similar.

After a long silence, he spoke first, as was proper. “We will fight; you will learn. There will not be instructions.” His voice was hoarse, as though he rarely used it, and though faint, Natalia could detect his slight American accent. Where exactly in the States he was from, she couldn’t place. She was impressed by how natural Russian sounded on his tongue.

“Understood,” she said with a firm nod.

He did not react to her response. Instead, he stiffened into a discrete fighting stance, and she followed, preparing.

He attacked, faster than a striking snake, and she dodged, immediately countering.

Training had begun.

* * *

The American never gave his name, and no one seemed to know it. The lack of introduction wouldn’t bother Natalia if it didn’t make addressing him difficult. Eventually, she decided to address him as ’instructor,’ and since he never commented on the title, she operated as though he’d given his specific approval.

It didn’t end up being much of a problem. They never spoke, and Natalia preferred to learn through observation, trial, and error anyway. For nearly a month, there was no change in their interactions, only in Natalia’s skill.

During the third session of the fourth week, however, she noticed a flicker of emotion in his eyes. Natalia had lost another fight and fallen still for more than several seconds to a particularly nasty hit from his metal arm, and as she pulled herself up to start again, she saw a flicker of hesitancy or regret in his eyes.

It had caused Natalia to pause, which the American had immediately used to gain the advantage in their next fight, but later that night, as she lay on her cot, she wondered if perhaps there was something greater at work here than a perfect mask. Otherwise, why would he react now, when he’d dealt her far worse blows in the past?

As the week continued, Natalia only grew more and more confused as he started to become easier to read more and more often. He became distracted, and she found herself winning their fights far too often to be normal.

During the second week after the incident, for the first time since they had met, he spoke.

“Your shoulders tense,” he said as she moved to stand again for another fight.

Natalia realized he was referring to the move she had been trying to use against him and failing each time. Pushing aside her shock at hearing him speak, she asked, “When?”

“Before you begin the kick.”

So that was how he anticipated the move.

Not knowing how to respond, she nodded and started the next fight.

This time, she remembered to keep her shoulders relaxed, and the move was successful.

From then on, he infrequently gave her advice. Eventually, he also wrestled his concentration back under control, and his fighting came back up to par. His emotions, however, became less and less hidden to her, and before long, she found it easy to read his eyes and small facial expressions and know what he was thinking.

The more he opened up, the harder it was for her to hide her own emotions from him. Soon, probably too soon, she allowed vague hints of her feelings show every once in a while during their sessions. She knew he noticed each time by the look in his eyes.

* * *

“Your sessions have been going well, Natasha,” Vasilisa said.

Natalia did not let herself smile at the compliment. “Thank you, Vasilisa Alexeyevna.”

Vasilisa dipped her head in recognition and continued. “I have decided, and the commander has agreed, to begin sending you and the Asset on missions together. They need him back on the field, and you need more experience.”

Natalia nodded. “I will not disappoint you.”

“I know,” Vasilisa said simply, and she waved Natalia from the room. Natalia nodded respectfully and left.

* * *

The first mission was quick and went without a hitch. They went in, Natalia assassinated their target, and they were back at the compound before nightfall. Because of the nature of missions and the privacy it allowed them, however, they ended up speaking to each other more than they had in their whole time of knowing each other. It had been surprisingly comfortable, all things considered. Natalia supposed that after so much time spent communicating nonverbally, moving to speech wasn’t too large of a jump.

They only discussed the mission

They knew the second would be longer from the start. A high-level government official of the old USSR had defected to the English two weeks ago. Because he had information important to maintaining what was left of Russia’s power, the American and Natalia had been ordered to hunt him down, retrieve the information, and cut off all loose ends, including the traitor’s life. It would take several days at least.

When they arrived in England, they found no leads on the traitor the first day, so they mutually decided to hole up in a run-down hotel on the outskirts of London.

The American led the way to the front desk, and both he and Natalia looked relaxed and comfortable in each other’s presence.

“My wife and I need a room for the night,” the American said, smiling casually. Natalia was briefly startled. She’d never heard him speak with his accent before. Now that she could hear it clearly, she pinpointed it as from New York, perhaps Brooklyn.

Natalia tucked an arm under the American’s metal one, which was covered and gloved, and smiled at the night porter to appear open and friendly, though she kept her expression tired as it allowed her to not speak. Her own American accent was not as good. Perhaps enough to fool the porter, but there was no point in risking it.

The night porter nodded and pulled out a clipboard and pen.

“Name?” he requested, yawning as he did.

“John Wilson,” the American said without hesitation.

The night porter scratched the name onto his paper, yawning again. “That’s 120 pounds—oh, unless you’re wanting anything else? Help with your bags—“

“That’s everything,” the American interrupted, neither harsh nor kind. He placed the necessary bills on the desk.

The night porter yawned and nodded, taking the money and handing them a key that had been hanging on the wall behind him. “The room number’s on the key, and the elevator’s to the right,” he said, waving vaguely to the right.

“Thanks,” the American said with a last smile, and they walked to the elevator.

They dropped their smiles once the desk was out of sight, but they remained relaxed. Only once they reached their door and checked the room for surveillance did they allow the act to drop.

The instructor dropped his travel bag at the end of the one bed in the room. “I’ll take the left side,” he said softly in Russian, and Natalia nodded, moving to place her bag on the right-hand-side chair.

She sat on the bed with a nearly undetectable sign, listening as a light switch clicked and a door was shut with a quiet thump. Not long after, she heard the water faucet twist on.

She felt unsettled. She’d never had to sleep so close to someone before, and it unnerved her to be forced into something so personal so suddenly. He could reach out and strangle her in her sleep and barely need to move.

Natalia made her hands into fists and used them to lean on the bed, arms stiff, head down, and eyes closed. Did she really distrust him so much? Her gut told her to at least consider trust, and her mind told her that was ridiculous.

It shouldn’t matter, she knew. She shouldn’t care because trust was inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. She and the American were allies alone, and that was that. She was to be wary of everyone, but obey her superiors unquestioningly, regardless of trust. She shouldn’t want or need to consider whether she trusted him or not.

She thought about it anyway.

The door clicked open again, and she jumped. Quickly grabbing her toiletry bag, she headed for the bathroom before he could see the way she’d been so obviously conflicted.

It took only minutes to wash her face and teeth and tie up her hair, so after slipping into night clothes, she lingered, trying to clear her mind. When she finally switched off the light and reentered the main room, she was thankfully calmer.

The lights were dark, but she saw him sitting on his side of the bed, checking his weapons quietly. The soft scratching and shifting of gun barrels and knives were familiar and comfortable, and Natalia soon snatched up her own weapons and sat on the bed, back to the pillows. Her checks were quick, though, and before long her gun was on the bedside table and she was slipping under the bedcovers.

The sound of his breathing lulled her to sleep despite her reservations about the situation.

* * *

The next couple days passed quickly. They eventually found that the traitor was going to be a professor at a local, London college, and that allowed them to easily find his home address, where they stood now, in the dark, out of the way of the street lamps.

After a quick examination of the traitor’s residence, they crept behind the building and approached his back door, where Natalia picked its simple lock as the American kept watch from the shadows. Within seconds, they were quietly sneaking into the house.

It was small, separate from the other homes only by thin walls. It was new, too, the doors, wooden floors, and stairs never squeaking. Faint lights came from the night sky through the uncovered windows, and pricks of red shown out from the household appliances: a TV, an oven and microwave, a refrigerator.

The stairs opened up at the front of the first floor, so they slipped silently through a small hallway to reach it. As they crept up the stairs, Natalia began to hear soft snoring from the room at the front of the house. The traitor lived alone. That must be his room.

The bedroom door opened silently, and the street lamps’ lights caused the door’s shadow to grow down the hallway and past the stairs. Natalia and the American shadows slid up the room’s walls as they moved toward the bed.

There the traitor lay, on his back with his white hair almost glowing in the dim light.

Gripping his knife, the American swiftly moved to the bed’s side and lifted the knife over the traitor’s body, preparing to strike. Natalia stood at the ready near the foot of the bed.

Inexplicably, he paused, staring at their target’s face. Natalia could not see his expression, but she tensed, holding her own knife steady at her side.

Then, suddenly, the traitor’s eyes shot open, and before he could yell, Natalia leaned over and stabbed him in the throat.

The American stumbled back as the traitor choked on his own blood for several long moments. He fell still with a final choke, blood dripping from his mouth.

Natalia pulled her knife back out of his throat with a jerk.

Everything was still and silent for a split second. Then, as though nothing had happened, the American began to search for the information the traitor had taken. Natalia put her knife in a plastic bag from her pocket and covered her hands in gloves before following.

The files and computer drives were located in several different spots around the house, but they retrieved all the info quickly. Neither bothered to close any of the doors as they left through the back and fled the scene.

* * *

Natalia’s mind hurtled from thought to thought as they stepped up to another hotel, the blood cleaned off and their clothes replaced. Why had the American stopped? The target had lain at his mercy. His knife had been ready. No matter how she tried, she couldn’t think of any logical reason for his hesitation.

It didn’t make sense. The American _never_ froze, not unless to confuse her in a fight. He had never held himself back, never hesitated.

She tried to search his face as they finished signing in to a new hotel, sending smiles to the night porter. She saw nothing. Only his smiling, relaxed mask and the emotionless one behind it.

The elevator dinged, and they stepped in, the old compartment shaking and grumbling slightly as they did. As the elevator doors shut, Natalia debated whether she should bring up the incident or not. She would never have questioned her other instructors... but this situation and this instructor was different. She fought alongside him, not for him. He had his own people instructing him, just as she did, and he had gone on missions with her where they both had roles with equal importance, for the most part. They should be on equal enough standing for her to mention it, if not question him on it.

The elevator rumbled to a stop, and the doors opened with another dull ding. Natalia let him take the lead out of the elevator and up to their room to unlock the door.

Shutting the door behind her, Natalia stepped up to the bed and placed her bag on it, opening it. Without turning towards him, she started the conversation neutrally.

“You hesitated.”

She heard him slow to a stop. The silence was thick.

“Yes,” he finally said. His voice gave nothing away.

She turned around and waited, watching his face in the dark room. It was shrouded in shadows, facing his bag as he pulled his weapons and clothes out for cleaning.

“That won’t work,” he said, not speaking again even as she waited.

She shifted and crossed her arms lightly, leaning against the wall beside the bed, where she stood. “Then tell me what to do.”

He looked up, weapons on his bed and clothes in his arms. For a moment, his eyes held hers. Then he turned, moved into the bathroom, and pushed up the handle to the sink to switch it on.

Natalia pushed off the wall and followed. “Why?” she asked. He continued to rub blood from the sleeve of his shirt. “Why did you hesitate?”

He squirted soap onto the shirt sleeve and began to rub it in with the water, not meeting her eyes. “...I don’t know.”

Natalia narrowed her eyes. “Don’t lie.”

He stiffened and turned to her. His face was only a few inches from her face, but she didn’t move back. ”I don’t have to answer to you,” he said in a low tone.

“Then why did you answer in the first place?”

He paused and then went back to rubbing his shirt. She waited.

“It suddenly felt wrong.”

Natalia shifted. “Wrong in what way?” she asked more softly. “We had orders; he was a traitor.”

“I know,” he said, rubbing the shirt more aggressively. No more blood ran down the drain. “I just—“ He slowed down and forced himself to become emotionless again, putting the shirt aside to dry and grabbing the next article of clothing.

When he didn’t speak again, Natalia left to empty her own bag and began to clean her knife with a cloth she damped slightly with the water from the sink. Nearly five minutes later, the bed dipped beside her, and the instructor began to check his guns.

“I think I remembered something,” he said softly a minute later. Natalia continued to clean her knife rhythmically, letting him speak when he was ready, but she was... startled by the emotion in his voice. Confusion. Pain. Longing.

“I lifted the knife, and I saw this picture of a boy, blond hair, very skinny, standing with his fists held up, prepared to fight anyone who…well…” he drifted off. Natalia glanced at him. His eyes seemed far away. “Does that make sense?” he asked even more softly than before.

Natalia took a moment to gather her thoughts. She could think of no response.

“I’m not sure.”

* * *

The next morning, they woke with the first light of day and were packing soon after. Neither spoke until they were nearly finished.

The American cleared his throat discreetly. “What will you say?”

Natalia continued packing. “Today? Nothing.”

“And tomorrow?” He was emotionless again today, at least in terms of facial expression. She could detect hints of emotion in his voice, hints of dread.

Natalia paused. “Nothing.” She zipped her bag up with a snap.

Out of her peripheral, she saw his shoulders relax minutely. “Why?”

“You’re my instructor,” she said simply. She knew he would understand the nature of hierarchy.

Lifting her gun, she checked its barrel and magazine and, seeing it was loaded but not active, tucked it into the protective, inside-the-waistband holster at the small of her back. Grabbing a second, smaller gun, she attached it to the holster on her right ankle, and her knife went in the concealed holster at her waist. The rest of her weapons she placed carefully in her second bag.

Beside her, she heard the American finishing up the rest of his own packing. When she turned to face him, bags in hand, he was covering his metal arm and hand in clothing.

His eyes flickered up and then back down to his hand. “What’s your name?” he asked suddenly.

Natalia almost let her mask drop. Perhaps she did, a little. She had never been asked for her name, not since she had been recruited. She had been a child, only four. Now, she was eighteen. She liked the idea of being able to introduce herself.

If she gave him her name, though, she had several options. Only two seemed worth considering. She could go with ‘Natalia,’ and they would remain acquaintances and allies only, or she could risk using ‘Natasha,’ and they could possibly come to trust each other and be friends.

She analyzed him carefully before deciding.

“Natalia, but you can call me Natasha.” The name seemed to cause a ripple in the air, as though something had changed irreversibly. Natalia— _Natasha_ —wasn’t sure if she should view the change as good or bad.

“Thank you, Natasha,” the instructor said sincerely. Natasha almost smiled.

He turned and started for the door, but Natasha grabbed his arm and he paused. “Wait,” she said. ”What do I call you?”

He shifted, eyes down. He seemed ashamed, or perhaps embarrassed or awkward. “I don’t remember my name...before,” he said finally, raising his eyes to meet hers as he spoke. “Most people call me the Winter Soldier. Or the American.”

“You could pick a name,” she suggested.

He paused, deep in thought. Finally, he named himself. “Djenya”

She raised her eyebrow. “Why a Russian name?”

She saw the flicker of a smile on his face. “I met someone here, once, who didn’t treat me as a weapon. His name was Yevgeny, but I heard him called Djenya.”

Natasha nodded in understanding, and after a moment, they mutually decided to leave.

* * *

When they were at the compound, they never used each other’s names. Natasha was Natalia to her fellow students, and Djenya was the American. In fact, they hardly spoke to each other except when necessary. There was no point in risking it.

Natasha could always tell if Djenya was having a good or a bad day, though. On good days, when the memories he had were relatively clear, she could read his emotions, faint as they were behind his mask. He seemed alive on those days, more relaxed. On bad days, when his memories were muddled and far away, he became dead to the world, a robot or puppet with only a physical resemblance to humans. No hints of emotion. No hints of her friend.

Natasha grew to hate the bad days, especially as became more used to their absence. They reminded her of how fragile her and Djenya’s friendship was, how much it relied on the ignorance of other people.

When they left the compound for missions, they allowed themselves to be freer. They could be alone, away from overseers. They could speak openly with each other.

Over time, they trusted each other more than any other, and they learned to genuinely express their emotions with each other.

* * *

They were walking down a street in Barcelona when Djenya drifted to a pause at a book stand. Natasha’s brow furrowed, and she paused beside him.

“Djenya? The contact’s still a while away.”

He looked up, eyes slightly unfocused, before his gaze was caught again by the book his fingers were gently touching, as if he couldn’t believe it was real. “I remember this book,” he whispered. “I think I read it as a child.”

Natasha gave it a closer look. The bindings were loose and cracked, the pages bent. On the cover, a picture of a man wrestling an alligator was painted. It looked like one of the cheap adventure novels Americans sell to kids. “It’s old,” Natasha remarked.

“It wasn’t when I read it,” Djenya said quietly.

Natasha watched him slowly pull his hand away and come back to the present.

“They—the books—they always made me laugh,” he said with a bittersweet smile. He looked back at her. “Did you ever read books like that?”

Natasha shrugged, slightly self-conscious. She’d never seen so clearly how different her childhood was from other people. She wasn’t comparing her life to fiction this time. “The stories the Red Room required always made me sad. Or confused.”

“Why?” Djenya asked.

Natasha straightened the books on the stand, not meeting his eyes. “I didn’t understand how they could be so carefree.”

Djenya hesitated. “Do you remember... _ever_ laughing?”

Natasha shrugged again, and they soon continued on their way, both deep in thought.

* * *

“Well that sucked ass,” Djenya said in English two weeks later after a particularly hard mission, dumping his bags on the bed.

Natasha froze in the doorway, having just shut the door to their room, and suddenly, she burst out laughing. Djenya spun around, alarmed by the strong response. She laughed harder.

“What?” he asked, laughing a bit himself even as he pretended innocence.

“Oh god,” she said, laughing between words. “I never realized how American you are. You did that on purpose, I know it.”

“It wasn’t _that_ American,” Djenya said, a smile tugging at his lips. “I got you to laugh, though, so I suppose we’re fine.”

“I can’t remember ever laughing,” Natasha said, still giggling sporadically. “Oh god, I can’t believe you said that.”

* * *

“How old are you?” Natasha asked one day without warning.

Djenya shrugged. “Somewhere between 20 and 24, I think. It’s hard to tell. Why?”

“The woman over there, the thirty-something. She keeps ogling you. But if you’re close enough in age...”

“Ugh. Germans.”

“...seriously?”

“What?”

* * *

“Do you ever wonder if we’re on the right side?” Djenya asked quietly. They were lying in bed facing each other, but neither could sleep after their last mission. Their target’s family had shown up part-way through the infiltration, so they had had to kill them all.

Natasha didn’t respond for a long time. When she at last spoke, she did so softly.

“Only sometimes.”

* * *

When she had nightmares, sometimes she’d wake up with his arms around her comfortingly. When he had nightmares, she always ran her hands through his hair and curled up beside him until he calmed down.

* * *

“A flower.” He handed her a rose he’d cut from their target’s garden as they left.

”And for you,” she said, handing him a flower of his own. He laughed, and she grinned.

* * *

The first time they kissed, Djenya initiated it. Their mission had gone south out of nowhere, and they had been split fleeing the building.

As she fled, Natasha spotted the file they had been looking for, and she grabbed it as she ran past it and out the side door. Nearly a mile from the building, she ran into Djenya.

Natasha smiled slightly and lifted the file as she said, ”I found it—“

His lips were on hers.

Natasha froze, and she felt him freeze also and lean back. She was too distracted to act, though. She’d been kissed before, of course, but she’d never really liked it. This...this had been nice. Very nice.

Her eyes went up to meet his. He was nervous and surprised, and it showed in the creases of his eyes.

Natasha felt a small smile pull at her lips. “What was that for?”

“I was just, well I mean I felt—I’m just glad to see that you’re alright,” he said, stumbling over his words. Natasha had never seen him so nervous.

Natasha grinned and leaned in to kiss him again. It was _very_ nice.

“We should run now,” she said after they broke apart, and they did, smiling sillily.

Who knew kissing could be so wonderful?

* * *

“You know,” Natasha said during another night of another mission. The bathroom door clicked open, and Djenya walked out, giving her an inquisitive look. “Only a month ago, I would have thought this was completely insane.”

Djenya smiled. “Which part?”

Natasha smiled in return, but she grew more serious before she responded. “All of it. I was trained to see love as a...weakness. As a ridiculous, human stunt. I’m supposed to be...more than human. Better.”

Djenya walked over and sat beside her on the couch.

“Were you taught that?” Natasha asked, watching his eyes carefully.

Djenya did not respond for some time. “I was told that I had no emotion. Only humans have emotion.” He looked down and squeezed her hand more tightly. “Sometimes I wonder if this is real,” he whispered.

Natasha understood immediately. Their circumstances seemed too good to be true.

“Sometimes I feel weak,” she whispered back, head going down briefly before she met his eyes again to convey her emotion. “But other times... other times I feel stronger than I’ve ever felt.”

He leaned down, and they rested their foreheads together, drawing strength. “I’ve felt it too.”

* * *

“We should stop,” Djenya said, slightly out of breath, pulling away from kissing her. She pulled him back in, deepening the kiss, and he melted back in for a moment before remembering again. “Wait, wait,” he said, trying not to smile. “We don’t want to risk it, remember?”

He kissed her one last time, but as he began pulling away, Natasha placed a hand on his chest. He stopped, and they watched each other intently, mere inches apart. “Why?” she whispered. “Why should we stop?”

His brows creased in confusion. She’d never questioned their unspoken agreement before.

Natasha continued softly, willing him to understand. “I want to be the one to decide who I’m with, just this once... This may be our last time together before I graduate, and they’ll take this choice away in the ceremony. And you’ll be gone.”

He seemed to understand the implications of what she was saying immediately, and he didn’t look surprised. Only sad. “Maybe—maybe we can find a way to get away,” he said.

“Maybe,” Natasha agreed, pulling so close their noses were touching. She closed her eyes. “But right now, I just... want to forget everything. For a moment.”

He breathed out a small, almost disbelieving laugh. “That won't be too hard if you keep on like this,” he said, his lips nearly touching hers.

She smiled and leaned in to close the gap. They kissed with a newfound desperation.

* * *

“I still think we could leave,” Djenya said the next morning as some of the happiness and carefreeness of last night began to fade away and reality set in again. “We could leave before it ever happens.”

Natasha shrugged, trying to pretend she didn’t care. “I want to, but we’d need a plan, a very good one. If we made one mistake, they’d find us, and the consequences... It may be too risky.”

“I know,” he said. He sounded weary. “But I think we could do it. We’d have to fake our deaths and go far away, but we could make it work, I know we could.”

“What if I graduate before we have a plan?” Djenya started to speak, but Natasha interrupted. “No, Djenya, really. I could graduate any day now. I could graduate tomorrow when we return. I don’t know.”

He searched for an answer before finally sighing and saying, “We have to try.” His eyes pleaded with her.

Eventually, Natasha nodded. She didn’t think she could stand it if they didn’t at least attempt an escape.

* * *

Over the next two weeks, they planned extensively. Each planned their own part since they could not communicate in the compound, and they knew how close the other was to being ready through the discreet messages they could read in each other’s faces and body postures.

With each day that passed, Natasha could tell that her graduation was coming closer and closer. Her instructors kept dropping hints, and she saw them whispering to each other excitedly in corners of the building, watching her as she passed. It made her feel nauseous and sick, but her face remained emotionless.

By the time they were assigned their next mission, they were ready. The plan went off without a hitch. They snuck into their target’s house, killed their targets, detached Djenya’s metal arm and placed it and a bomb near the targets. With Djenya’s arm and both bodies at the epicenter, it should look like they had all been caught in the blast, and it would be difficult to tell who’s ashes were who’s or if all the bodies were there, as nearly everything would be disintegrated in the blast. Their superiors would spend little time looking into it.

They fled the scene quickly and efficiently after the explosion, and before long, they were boarding an airplane on their way to France, where they would take another plane to the United States.

“We’re leaving,” Djenya said in wonder, bucking his seat belt. He spoke English to hide their conversation from others but not draw too much attention.

“I almost can’t believe it,” Natasha said. They were both smiling in relief.

“To America, huh?” Natasha said teasingly. “Very American choice.”

Djenya laughed quietly. “It’s far away. And convenient.”

“Hmm,” Natasha said, holding onto his hand tightly. “I can’t wait to see it.”

They talked the whole trip, slowly becoming more and more relaxed. When the transition to the next flight went smoothly, they relaxed even further, and eventually, they leaned into each other, sleeping in turns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's the start! Hopefully you like it.
> 
> What do you think of Bucky's Russian name, btw? I know the usual name is Yasha (which is actually a diminutive of Yakov, believe it or not), but I read that that actually translates to Jacob, which, sure, is a diminutive of James but...I don't really like the name Jacob for Bucky. Sorry if your name is Jacob. I don't know, I couldn't shake that impression out of my head. So I went with Djenya, which is a less common (I assume since I see Zhenya on the internet more often) diminutive of Yevgeny/Yevgeniy, the Russian equivalent of Eugene (one of you guys pointed this out first, actually, so thank you!). It does sound kind of like James (more than Yasha anyway), so I thought it fit.
> 
> (Here's the link if you want to read the Tumblr post that inspired all of this btw: wintergaydar. tumblr. com post/71487710917/hello-class-today-i-would-like-to-tell-you-why. Hopefully that works)
> 
> Also, in the reviews (which I love, please send me reviews and criticism! I promise you won't crush my soul or anything), you could maybe mention what you thought of the romance? And the love scene? I'm ace and I'm a little bit aro and I've never been in a relationship, so I try to avoid writing it. But it just kinda happened here, and, well, I really ship Nat and Bucky. So yeah. Hopefully my ace-ness didn't show in the writing (the kissing scene. It was so stinkin' hard to write. I kinda just winged it... I feel like it may have felt awkward so I just added lots of smiling? Idk? And every time I read the scene before they do the do I wince cause it's just so awkward).
> 
> Help me out with all that, please! I probably won't go back and edit (unless it's really, really bad, otherwise I'll just ignore it and try to continue writing), but it would be extremely helpful in the future!
> 
> I'll try to write again soon. Thanks for reading!
> 
> UPDATE NOTE: I have changed a fair amount of this. Some of the scenes were rearranged. Added a scene. Took out a scene. Completely changed several scenes. Anyway, one rather big change was the naming. I realized that the names and the way the Russian characters were interacting was incorrect (thank you Tumblr and the internet!).
> 
> So yeah, Madame B. is now Vasilisa Alexeyevna Ivashina (her name, written in Russian, begins with a 'b').
> 
> Use of first name (Vasilisa) + patronymic (Alexeyevna) is the most formal way of addressing someone.
> 
> Medium range formalness is simply the first name.
> 
> Least formal is the short form of a name (for Natalia, this is Natasha). It is used between friends (not acquaintances unless both are young, ie teens) and family but also to address someone who is significantly lower than you in rank (in the case of Vasilisa and Natasha). It's all rather fascinating.


	2. To survive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEW CHAPTER WOOO! 
> 
> I'm sorry it took so long! I always take forever to write. I also went back and edited the first chapter rather extensively, so if you want to go check that out first, go ahead! If you don't, the main things you need to know are:
> 
> 1) Madame B. is now called Vasilisa (Alexeyevna Ivashina). Also, Natasha thinks of herself as Natasha rather than Natalia (ever since she asked Djenya to call her by her short form). 
> 
> 2) I added another getting-to-know-you/falling-in-love scene between Djenya and Natasha, and I rewrote that ONE scene (you know? I can't bring myself to say it, sorry. It makes me feel so awkward haha). It's much less angsty, much shorter, and hopefully much more in character now.

In the two days since their escape, Natasha and Djenya had been on the move nonstop, rarely staying somewhere longer than a few hours. Soon, they would be leaving New York City altogether and heading for Boston. The constant movement, combined with their ability to blend in with crowds and avoid surveillance, had kept their trail hidden so far. Someday, maybe they’d be able to settle down, but the risk was too great so soon after their escape.

Natasha found that she didn’t care. She had never smiled so often nor felt so light. A huge weight had been pulled away and she felt suddenly that she could fly. Seeing Djenya’s happiness only fed her joy. It was surreal, to see how happy he was. A light she hadn’t realized was missing had lit up behind his eyes. She wondered if he could say the same about her.

She squeezed his hand lightly, and he glanced down at her and gave her a quick smile. They were walking down the street of a market crawling with people, looking for food. Natasha had been feeling nauseous and hungry, and it helped disguise them when they pretended to be ordinary, in-love, American tourists. It also allowed them to act carefreely, something Natasha was growing to relish.

Djenya nudged her and pointed to a food stand selling teriyaki noodle bowls. “What about that place?” he said in his American English.

Natasha checked it over and nodded decisively. “It looks good. Let’s try it.”

Djenya stepped into the long line. “It looks amazing,” he said, sounding almost like he was correcting her.

“Hmm,” Natasha responded, lips twitching in amusement.

Djenya looked back at her. “What?”

Natasha projected an air of innocence. “Nothing, nothing...I just find you amusing. That’s all.”

“I’m hilarious,” he said with false indignation.

Natasha only patted his arm condescendingly. “Sure,” she said, turning her attention back to the menu, which was only a few more people away. Djenya rolled his eyes but allowed her to change focus without remark.

After ordering and receiving their bowls, they began to walk towards the exit. They had to move through the crowd carefully, people pushing in on either side, but both kept a good hold on their food without any trouble.

“We should rent a car and leave this afternoon,” Natasha said, introducing the new subject deftly after walking and eating silently for several minutes.

Djenya took another bite of his own noodles. “The rental place I mentioned yesterday will be open, so we can leave by 5:00.”

Natasha calculated the distance and time it would take to travel, adjusting their plan to fit. “We’ll get to Boston sometime between 10:00 and midnight then.”

“As long as traffic isn’t terrible,” Djenya agreed, dumping his empty bowl in a trash can as they passed.

Natasha ate quietly and considered him out of the corner of her eyes. “Have you been to Boston before?” she asked neutrally.

Djenya’s eyes dropped to the ground. “Probably.”

“And before?”

Djenya shrugged slightly. “I still only remember... faces and-and pictures. Nothing concrete. I know I’ve been here... and I know it looks different, but I don’t know _how_.” He trailed off and shrugged again.

Natasha hmm’d in understanding. Since they arrived, he had started to remember more of his past. He would see a place and recall some event, some interaction. But he never remembered names or the meaning behind the memories. It frustrated him, but he was also relieved. He’d had a life, before everything. A good life.

Natasha wasn’t sure if she should be glad to not have memories of before or if she should want them. Sometimes she wished she did so she’d feel more human; other times she was relieved to have nothing to miss or try to build towards, nothing in her past to measure her life by. Any step forward was good for her, better than anything she’d previously experienced, and she didn’t have to worry about going back to the way she was before. Djenya did, and she saw the strain it caused him.

“You’ll like it though,” Djenya said as they walked through the exit.

Natasha laughed. “I like anyplace new.”

“That’s why I know you’ll like it,” Djenya said, and Natasha elbowed him.

Suddenly, he stiffened minutely, just enough for Natasha to notice. Natasha tensed, dread growing in the pit of her stomach. “Let’s go this way,” Djenya said casually, indicating an alleyway to their right. “I think it’s a shortcut.”

There was a threat, Natasha knew. Keeping her face forward, she searched the area discreetly until she found them, someone facing their direction too casually. A spy. She spotted a gun in the man’s jacket pocket, only just visible, and even with his sunglasses obscuring his eyes, fitting for the bright, sunny day, she could tell he was watching them.

“Sure,” Natasha said. “You know New York better than I do.” _You’ll know how to lose them easier_.

The alley was small, and they quickly passed through and crossed the street into another alley across the street. This one was longer, but Natasha also knew that people were around the corner, people waiting for them.

As they turned, both Djenya and Natasha struck out first. Cries and yells broke out, and the man she’d hit in the neck fell backward, disoriented and easy to disarm. His gun was already loaded, so she immediately shot one, two, three people, before whirling to duck another person lunging with a knife. The knife-wielder tripped and fell, and she grabbed their knife and stabbed another attacker in the leg. Djenya pounded the man who’d tripped into the ground, and Natasha noticed four others lay motionless behind him. Three new people came running in from behind them, and Djenya rose to meet them. Natasha faced the last two on her side.

One, the woman, had a gun whose bullets had nearly hit Natasha several times, the other was searching for a weapon. Natasha went for the woman first, ducking down and springing up to kick the gun out of her hand. The woman responded quickly, slamming her fist into Natasha’s face, but Natasha used her fall to whip out her legs and trip her opponent. The man had rushed to retrieve the gun, so Natasha threw her knife into the man’s back. The woman tackled her as she threw, lifting her head and slamming it into the floor. Natasha deflected her next blow, using her body to latch on and flip them over, where she quickly punched the woman in the jugular, causing her to choke and giving Natasha the upper hand. She hit her head into the ground until the woman passed out, then jumped up to help Djenya. Snatching up the gun of her opponent, she aimed and fired, killing the last man standing as Djenya let go of his stranglehold on his opponent and stood, letting Natasha step forward and shoot him in the head.

No one else could be heard approaching, so Djenya quickly grabbed a radio from one of the bodies, and they rushed from the scene.

As they moved, one after the other, Natasha dropped her jacket and put on the glasses she’d kept in her pocket in a case. Her hair was died brown, so she left her hood down, knowing that would be more conspicuous in the sunny weather. Djenya removed his hat and pulled his hair up into a knot, throwing an arm over her shoulder. Within seconds, they’d thrown on quick disguises and were merging into the crowd flowing pass the end of another alleyway, heads together as if they were an ordinary couple talking with each other as they left.

“They shouldn’t have been able to find us,” Djenya said. Although he projected a fake smile and huddled with her convincingly, she could hear his urgency.

Natasha also forced a smile to keep up appearances but nodded in agreement. “They must have some way of keeping track of us.”

“Trackers,” Djenya murmured. “We need to check for trackers.”

Natasha adjusted his arm on her shoulder. “That’s why we left your arm. We planned for that.”

“We must have missed something. They must have implanted one of us with something.”

Natasha considered this a moment before speaking quietly. “I was unconscious for a part of the time. When they enhanced me. They must have decided they would rather be able to find us if we fled than avoid losing us to capture, even with all the training.”

“They certainly wouldn’t care how compromising a tracker can be,” Djenya said, bitterly. “We need to take them out. Now.”

They ducked into another alley, and after several turns and them both listening and looking for any sign of danger, Djenya motioned for her arm. She extended her right one quickly, trusting him to know how to find one. As he searched, she scanned the area. Seconds or minutes later, he grabbed her other arm, but as he did, she heard it.

“A chopper,” Natasha told him anxiously.

“I found it,” he exclaimed, shifting to pull out his knife, his thumb resting over a spot on her upper left arm where the tracker must be. “Jus—“

A small, black device slashed through the air beside them, and before they could run, a jolt of electricity shot out of it, pushing them into unconsciousness.

They wouldn’t see each other again for many years.

* * *

.

.

“…ini…“

.

.

.

“Scans…“

.

.

.

 _Beep_.

“It… …ing up…”

.

 _Beep_.

“They’re n…ly co..lete…”

Scratch, screech.

 _Beep_.

“Done.”

Shuffle. Click.

Shift, try to open eyes. Light too bright.

What is going on?

“She moved.”

“It’s fine; come over here.”

Shuffle. Click.

Eyes blink again. Again.

“Zoom in there.”

Cl-click. Click. Slide.

Quiet.

The quiet helped, and she remembered. Natasha, she was Natasha. Everything was so blurry…

Shuffle. A shadow moved across the room.

“Is that—?”

“What is it?”

Vasilisa.

Natasha blinked more, clearing her vision. She lay on a cold, hard surface. Gathered close together across the room, a group of people stared at a screen, its lights reflected on their faces. Vasilisa stood in the center, form stiff and arms crossed. Natasha couldn’t see her face.

“The trainee,” one of the doctors said. His voice was shocked, she could hear it. “She’s pregnant.”

Natasha’s mind suddenly became startlingly clear, and it raced to understand his claim. She was pregnant? Natasha, the spy, a product of the Red Room?

She remembered. Djenya. That night. It must have been then. And the nausea, that had been a sign, a sign…

The irony was stifling. The _one_ time they risked, and only because of a ceremony where she’d be sterilized...

“ _What?_ ” Vasilisa’s voice cut through her thoughts, cold as dry ice and more dangerous than a madman with a gun and nothing to lose.

“She’s going to have a baby, Vasilisa,” the doctor said, still shocked.

Nothing but the buzz of electronics broke the silence, and Natasha floundered in confusion and panic.

“Get rid of it,” Vasilisa spat finally, turning to leave the room.

“Wait!”

The room froze.

Natasha didn’t know why she had said it, why she was risking so much for something that wasn’t even alive yet, but she trusted her instincts. She needed to keep the baby. “If-if you take the baby, I’ll never be as good a spy.”

Vasilisa slowly faced her. Natasha had never seen her so furious. “You _dare_.”

Natasha kept her voice even, but her face showed her resolution. “The doctors aren’t trained for abortions. They’ll hurt my body more than the pregnancy could.”

Vasilisa’s face remained statue-like except for her lip, which curled slightly in disgust. “We’ll get someone else to do it,” she said, starting to turn away again.

“The longer it takes to find someone, the more risky the operation will be. The baby’s already more than a month old. “

Vasilisa turned back and crossed her arms. “So we waste a year instead? Your body will be ruined anyway.”

“It won’t be wasted,” Natasha said firmly. Her words were a vow. “I will train the whole time. Only physical training will be postponed and only for a part of the time. After the birth, I will train ten times harder. I will perfect five languages, ten accents, fifteen abilities. I will do _anything_ and kill _anyone_ to keep my baby alive. But“—Natasha’s eyes were steel, her voice biting and emphatic—“if my baby is taken, I will destroy you _all_.”

Vasilisa narrowed her eyes and leaned over Natasha to look her straight in the eye. Natasha did not stop glaring. “You would kill anyone?” she said.

“Yes.”

“Even your lover?”

Natasha had known she would ask, so she answered immediately. “Without hesitation.”

Vasilisa studied her a moment longer. Straightening suddenly, she turned to the others in the room. “Doctor,” she demanded.

The doctor who had spoken before responded. “It would be too much trouble to bring in new doctors, and it is…a rare gift to be able to examine the child of two enhanced people. It would be a fascinating study.” The doctor smiled leeringly, and Natasha had to suppress a shiver. What was she getting herself into?

Vasilisa clenched a fist and nodded decisively. “Leave it then. I expect regular updates.”

She turned to Natasha one last time. “I will hold you to your word,” she warned, and then she left the room.

In the coming days and weeks and years, Natasha would wonder if she had just made the best or the worst decision of her life. All she knew in that moment, however, was that for some strange reason she couldn’t stand the thought of losing this child, her baby. And for that moment, she was enormously relieved.

* * *

Miles away, Djenya did not wake so slowly. Water filled his nose and throat violently, disorienting him, choking him, taking his ability to breathe.

He wasn’t in the Red Room.

Trying to blink and shake the water away, Djenya continued to gasp for breath, the noise harsh and pathetic in the silence. His left ear popped, and he winced. Must have been a hose that woke him.

“Report,” a frigid voice said in Russian.

Djenya’s eyes snapped in its direction. The commander stood before him, eyes narrow and sparking.

Brows furrowing, Djenya hesitated a moment. “Where...where is Natasha?”

The commander flicked out a hand sharply to signal another person, and a blow hit Djenya’s head. His ear rang, leaving his mind scrambling to catch up to the situation.

He heard the soft thumps of booted feet drawing close to him.

“ _Report_ ,” the commander said only a few feet away. Just out of arms reach despite the restraints around Djenya’s arm and feet.

But Djenya could remember again, and he would not back down, not this time. “ _Where is Natasha?_ ” he said. His voice was low, a threat.

The commander’s face twisted into a sneer, and he stepped back once. “Longing,” he spat.

Djenya recognized the word immediately, and his eyes widened, jerking against the restraints.

“Rusted.”

“No!”

“Seventeen.”

“Where is she?!”

“Daybreak.”

“TELL ME WHERE SHE IS!”

“Furnace.”

Djenya lashed out again...

“Nine.”

...and stilled, eyes burning into the commander. “I’m going to get away someday.”

“Benign.”

“I will _rip_ you to _pieces_.”

A slight hesitation, then he continued angrier. “ _Homecoming_.”

Djenya gritted his teeth, trying desperately to hold onto his desire to find Natasha.

“One.”

He was losing himself.

“Freight car.”

.

.

.

“ _Say it_.”

A breath.

“Ready to comply.”

* * *

Natasha learned quickly that Djenya had been taken back by his organization while she was unconscious. Two instructors had been conversing lowly about it, but Natasha heard them easily. From what she’d overheard, the commander had been _very_ angry with Natasha and Vasilisa, claiming that she had seduced him into the escape, but he left, in the end, taking Djenya with him, and hadn’t returned.

Her heart had ached when she’d first learned of his absence, but she didn’t allow herself time to grieve. She pushed it aside and moved on. She trained, harder than ever, pushing herself past her limits until the doctors told her she needed to begin resting for the baby. Even then, she trained every possible moment, both mind and body.

Sometimes, however, in the late of night when she couldn’t sleep, she wondered how Djenya was and what he would think of their baby. Although they had never discussed it, she knew he would have cherished having a child just as much as she was growing to.

But the pregnancy passed without any major complications and without Djenya beside her, and it was not too long, only three seasons later, that the birth occurred with an equally small amount of complications.

* * *

Natasha lay flat on her back, utterly exhausted, waiting for them to return with her baby. The room was dim, but her eyes slid to a close in the light anyway. The cot she lay on pressed against her back harshly.

The birth had been much easier than Natasha had anticipated. It had been relatively quick, and she had certainly been in worse pain in the past. No, the waiting and uncertainty had been the worst. Even now, she waited anxiously for her child. She didn’t even know whether to say he or she.

Would they even bring the baby back? The deal had been struck, but she wouldn’t trust anyone here for anything. She kept trying to banish the doubt from her mind, but it always slipped back in, like water that will find the smallest crack in a wall and seep through. What if they took the child and told her it died?

She could still hear crying in the other room at least. That comforted her as much as it worried her.

The door to her room screeched, and Natasha’s eyes snapped to the man opening the door. He held her baby in his arms, loosely wrapped in a blanket and crying still. Natasha pushed her self up to sit somewhat upright against the wall

Walking briskly across the room, he stood beside her cot and held the baby out. She instantly snatched it from him, holding it close to her chest. The baby snuffled and began to quiet down as she held it.

It was so tiny. Was it supposed to be so tiny?

“The baby’s things will be brought here soon. Everything it will need,” the doctor said. He was the one who’d been assigned the job of making sure she had everything she needed and knew everything about caring for a child. Apparently, he had had several children himself.

Natasha nodded, and he left the room. The door screeched and thumped to a close behind him, and then it was quiet but for the baby’s sniffling.

Relaxing, Natasha looked down to see her child for the first time.

It was very small all over: feet like her pinkie finger and hands like the flat of her thumb. Its nose was the size of a blueberry, and its eyes, which were all scrunched up, were even smaller.

Swallowing away a lump in her throat, Natasha stroked the baby’s nose and cheeks and eyes. There was a white substance covering most of its body, and its face was red and splotchy. One of its ears, too, were folded, and when she straightened it, it slowly folded back in.

It was the cutest, most beautiful child she had ever seen, and she felt a fierce need to protect the child.

Remembering suddenly, she peeked under the blanket. A boy. She smiled, a little teary despite herself.

“I will name you Pyotr. Pyotr Yevgenovich Romanov, since your father had no family name,” Natasha whispered to her baby, rocking him just slightly and trying to wrap the blanket more securely without setting him down. She let herself relax further, holding the child close.

_“My sweet little Petya.”_

* * *

Within a week, Natasha was back training again, ten times harder, as she had bargained.

She had never felt so overwhelmed. Beyond the intense training and the heavy scrutiny, she was sterilized two days after the birth, which left her even more exhausted and in pain. Then, on top of that, she now had a _baby_ , whom she cared for deeply and whom she had little to no help watching over. There was an air of _it’s your problem_ from everyone she even glanced it while with Petya. She quickly decided that the only way to keep him safe was to train with him in the same room in order to keep an eye out. He slept nearly all the time, but when she periodically needed to feed him or when he began to cry or require a diaper change or almost hurt himself, she had to be there. She couldn’t stand to leave him alone, and she knew it was dangerous to do so anyway.

Of course, training in the same room as a baby was also dangerous, but Natasha set up safety precaution after safety precaution and was reasonably confident enough in her abilities to believe Petya safe. Certainly more safe than anywhere else.

He grew quickly, though he always felt so small to her, and he startled easily, being always surrounded by abrupt noises. Terrifyingly for Natasha, he cried often. She feared that if he made too much noise, her instructors would grow frustrated and would take him away, so she always kept him as quiet as possible and did her best to prevent him from crying in the first place.

At night, she was even more anxious to keep him quiet, so she kept his crib right next to her bed. That way, when he started crying, she could always sweep him up quickly and begin to calm him. She learned very quickly the best ways to quiet him, and she was always so nervous about his noise that she lost a great deal of sleep beyond how much the baby kept her awake.

By the two months mark, Natasha had a hard time remembering when she _hadn’t_ been fighting a perpetual tsunami of complete and utter exhaustion. In fact, she had passed out several times, and she had to be very careful to always eat and drink a great deal to make up for the lack of sleep and the overabundance of activity. Bleeding together like new clothes in warm water, the days were an almost clockwork schedule of waking and sleeping and eating and child-caring and training.

It wasn’t until the middle of the night during one of her nightly wake-and-feed-the-baby sessions that she was rewarded for her hard work. She had just finished and was simply relaxing and enjoying the rare ability to sit and hold Petya in peace, murmuring as she often did, when his eyes blinked sleepily at her and he gave his first smile.

Natasha stared, eyes lighting up as she realized what had happened. It was a wobbly smile, but it _was_ a smile, a reaction to her voice. Her baby had _smiled_ at her. She watched in amazement, grinning back. The smile did not last long, of course—the poor child was exhausted, and not long after, his eyes shuttered shut in sleep—, but Natasha did not care. Her baby had smiled, and she was overjoyed.

“Oh, Petya,” she said with a little laugh, kissing his forehead.

Petya snuffled in his sleep.

* * *

Petya’s next milestone—his first full night of sleep several months later—brought Natasha more relief than joy. This was both because she could start getting more sleep now and because when she woke and saw the first rays of sunlight coming through the tiny, rectangular window in an upper corner of her room, she had thought something went horribly wrong.

She got ready that day and then woke him, but not without checking that he was safe and well over twenty times, nearly rousing him at least five of those times.

* * *

Natasha hit the target for the hundredth time that day and felt like grinning. When she had arrived that morning, her usual practice room had been rearranged, the moving targets set up with new technology to move more irregularly and the long distance shots set to pea-sized targets rather than grape-sized ones. It was a test, and one she was passing with ease. She hadn’t missed a single target.

After checking her handgun and after putting its safety back on, Natasha placed it and its holster on the weapons’ wall. She would move onto ballet training next, but she wanted to see Petya first. She had installed a sound monitor in his crib, but he hadn’t made any noise she could notice in her earpiece for a while. Besides, she always tried to check on him every hour, even if just for a second.

Petya’s crib was behind a strong, sound-dampening wall that was enough, she believed, to protect his sensitive ears. The small room had only one entrance, and it had a simple but firm door. The room was designed and built to the least-expensive and most bare-bones standard possible. Vasilisa made every effort to show her displeasure. Approving only the most absolute necessities was a part of that.

Natasha entered the little room, immediately seeking Petya out. He had learned to sit up on his own some time ago, and so he sat now, smiling when he saw her enter and babbling quietly.

She returned the smile. “What are you up to?” she said, pulling him out of his crib and kissing his forehead. This room was secure. She could show affection.

"Gah-ah," Petya babbled, hand gripping the fabric of her sleeve.

"Just missed me, huh?" Natasha said, smiling fondly and rubbing a finger against his cheek. Petya’s head dropped onto her shoulder, and he cooed. Slipping down to sit cross-legged on the floor, Natasha set him on the ground in front of her and watched as he waved his arms around. She combed a hand through his thin hair and her smile dampened. "You look so much like Djenya," she murmured. They had the same understated blue eyes and dark brown hair. Her bold red hair and water green eyes could never be so subtle.

Petya flopped over and struggled to get his legs out and up from under him, and Natasha raised an eyebrow. "Trying to crawl again?" she said, thoughts of Djenya pushed aside.

She watched quietly as Petya lifted an arm and, wobbling, slapped it back down ahead of his other. A leg rose and fell next, then the other hand, then the other foot. Grinning, she sat still as he slowly crawled onto her lap again. When he lifted a hand up to her, babbling, she swept him up without hesitation. "Good job, Petya!" she murmured happily. "Wonderful work.”

* * *

Petya was playing when Natasha heard footsteps closing in outside their room's door, thumping loudly on the cement floors. But before she could motion to Petya that they needed to be quiet, she saw him place a finger to his lips and quietly say, "Shhhh,” eyes wide.

As the footsteps passed their door and moved in the other direction, Natasha slumped in relief, reaching out to hug Petya to her. Despite knowing the necessity, she found herself wishing his first expression of language hadn’t been one of fear.

* * *

The doctor, the one who had encouraged Vasilisa to allow Petya to live so he could examine the child of two enhanced people, scratched notes onto a clipboard. Petya's physical examination had just finished, which included noting the child's walking progress. Since he'd started several weeks ago, he'd improved rapidly and could now walk wobblingly across the length of the doctor's office without needing help.

Natasha hated coming here every week. It was dehumanizing, for both her and her child. She “no longer deserved to be seen as a person.” But she had to keep up her mask of emotionlessness, or she’d be seen as inadequate and Petya would be in danger.

"Any other progress to report?" the doctor said, tone uninterested.

Natasha hesitated only a moment before divulging the news. "He spoke his first word four days ago."

The doctor's head snapped up, and Natasha resisted the urge to clench her teeth at his enthusiasm. "What did the boy say?"

"Mama," Natasha replied coolly.

The doctor sneered slightly but did not comment on the word, looking down to jot down notes. "Anything else since?"

"Hungry, quiet, thank you." She had taught him to say thank you herself.

"Make him say something," the doctor said, seeming pleased with the list of words.

Natasha bent down slightly to address Petya, who was sitting on her lap. "Say thank you, Pyotr."

" _Spaseeba_ ," he said quietly, only slurring the p and b a little bit. Natasha was proud.

The doctor jotted down a few more notes and smiled at them. "You may go. I'll be informing Vasilisa of the boy's progress."

Natasha nodded and stood to leave, Petya in her arms. Once the door closed behind her, her shoulders relaxed imperceptibly. Vasilisa had been...disappointed in Petya's progress so far. This should hopefully stave her off.

* * *

“Mama, mama, do i’ ‘gain, do i’ ‘gain!” Petya whisper-shouted, giggling quietly and climbing haphazardly back up onto his mother’s lap. As they were at home and alone, he had permission to play as long as he was quiet.

Natasha grinned and waited until he was still. She hummed a drawn-out sound, and Petya giggled, wriggling in anticipation. “Hmmmm, what is this?” she said in a garbled voice, clicking her tongue as she talked. Her eyes were closed again, and she pretended to try to figure him out by touch, hands flitting from his hair to his shoulders to his ears.

She paused on those, and Petya giggled again. “Theeeeese seem familiar, hmmm?” she garbled. She poked at his ear and pulled them forward gently, trying not to laugh at his squirming and giggling.

Suddenly, she gasped, a hand going to her mouth as if in shock. “Oh, no!” she exclaimed. “It’s the being again, the _inoplanetyanin_!”

“I’m not ’n alien!” Petya exclaimed in a whisper.

"What do we do?" Natasha pretended to wail. "He'll find us all!" Natasha gasped as if in sudden realization. "We must distract him! Quickly!" She leaned in and tickled his sides, and he giggled and tried to wriggle away.

"Stop, stop!" he squealed, and Natasha fell backward, Petya flopping down on top of her.

He quickly pushed himself up onto his elbows. "I go' you," he said.

"You got me," Natasha agreed, voice normal again. She leaned up and kissed his nose, grinning as he cried, "Mama!" and rubbed his nose with his sleeve.

Suddenly, she heard footsteps, and she sat up, setting Petya aside and placing a hand on her lips. There were multiple feet, one in heels and two in boots. Natasha instantly stood.

As she'd anticipated, the door was opened, and Vasilisa stepped inside, two guards in step behind her. Her gray eyes swept the small room, resting on Petya just behind Natasha before meeting her trainee's eyes.

"I have been told that the boy's progressing well," she said crisply.

Natasha did not speak, her chest tight with fear.

"Russian, French, _and_ English," Vasilisa said, her heels clicking as she went over to the wardrobe and slid a finger through the dust at its top. "It must have been difficult to teach him three on your own."

"I managed," Natasha said emotionlessly.

"Yes," Vasilisa said, moving to stand in front of Natasha. Their eyes bored into the others until Vasilisa's slid away to look at Petya.

"Comment vous appelez-vous, garçon?" Vasilisa said, asking for his name in French.

"Pyotr, madame,” Petya said very carefully. His accent was off, but he didn't have a lisp.

"Et quel âge avez-vous?" she continued her test. _And how old are you?_

"Deux," Petya said, not meeting her eyes. _Two_.

Vasilisa sniffed. "Decent," she said, switching back to Russian.

The silence stretched, but Natasha bit her tongue.

Finally, sighing falsely, Vasilisa spoke. "They wish to do more tests on the boy."

Natasha felt her throat go dry, thoughts frozen.

"I am here to oversee his removal. Don't make this into an issue."

Natasha breathed in and out slowly. "Where?" Her voice was clear and sharp, and Petya gripped her leg. Natasha placed a hand on his head comfortingly.

"A training and research facility," Vasilisa said warningly.

"Then I will go and train there. You will need me to care for him."

"No," Vasilisa said, voice harsh. "You would do well to remember that you have lost the luxury of trust. The boy can survive without you."

Natasha's shoulders stiffened. "We have never been apart."

"This will be good learning experience then,” she said slickly, mockingly.

Natasha narrowed her eyes and stepped forward. "When you _graciously_ allowed me to keep my son, you promised we would not be separated so long as I did my part."

"I did not—"

"I have done everything," Natasha interrupted mercilessly. "I have fulfilled my promises and more. And if you do not keep your side of the bargain, I promise that you will find my threat fulfilled with equal success.”

Vasilisa's face twisted with anger, but Natasha stepped forward and the Red Room’s director fell back instinctively, the guards gripping their guns more tightly. Every bit of anger and hate the Black Widow felt towards these people shown through in her eyes, and for the first time, Vasilisa Alexeyevna saw just how dangerous a weapon she'd created.

Natasha sneered when she saw the fear in the director’s eyes and continued, practically spitting her words. "If he so much as _trips_ without treatment, if he is not back here in _exactly_ 168 hours, 7 days, I will peel you open and _burn_ you and your _precious_ Red Room from the inside out. You will feel the pain I have endured _tenfold_ , and I will _laugh_." At the last word, Natasha stepped right up in Vasilisa's face, giving her a clear once-over, and the director flinched. Natasha scoffed. " _Coward_.”

Staring Vasilisa down a moment longer, the Black Widow turned her back to them, knowing it would show her confidence and her disdain for their ability to fight her. Her face softened as she knelt in front of her son.

"Mama?" Petya's eyes were wide and teary, and his voice wavered.

Natasha's heart broke, and she pulled him into her arms tightly as he began to shake, shushing and murmuring his name and promises of safety over and over. Desperately, oh so desperately, she longed to force them to take her also, but she knew they'd refuse after what happened last time she left. The only way she was leaving with her son was if she fought her way out, and even she couldn't risk going up against more than fifty trained fighters with a child to protect. This was her best chance of seeing Petya safe, and it hurt her more than anything.

Finally, she pulled away, her arms still around him. "Petya, hey, look at me," she said softly, and when he'd met her eyes, rubbing the sleeve of his shirt against his eyes, she continued. "You're going to be alright, ok? Just remember what I told you. Be quiet and respectful, and do everything they say. You'll be back here before you know it." Natasha swallowed but met Petya's eyes solidly. "I'll keep you safe. Do you understand?"

Petya nodded tearfully, and Natasha pulled him into another hug. "I love you, Petya, never question that."

Petya gripped her tighter. "I love you too, Mama," he said, the fear, the _terror_ , so evident in his voice that a tear slid down Natasha's face no matter how hard she tried to keep it back.

She quickly wiped away the tear and stood, Petya still tucked into her arms. Eyeing both the guards carefully, she finally turned to the one on the right and ordered, "Put away your gun," gesturing towards Petya. She didn't trust him more than the others, but something about the way he immediately put away his gun, something about the look in his eyes, almost like a promise, allowed her to hold Petya out and let her baby go.

She stepped back, hands going behind her to hid the way they shook as she tried to ignore the way Petya was calling for her.

Vasilisa flicked a hand at the door, and the guards left. Her mask was back up, and when she spoke, her voice made the hair at the back of Natasha's neck stand on end. "See how well you can care for your brat after the week is over. You will learn true pain."

Natasha bared her teeth, and the door slammed shut, leaving Natasha alone in the darkness.

* * *

A week later, Natasha’s hair was matted and tangled; her clothes covered in dirt; her body, inside and out, aching and burning at the slightest movement or touch; her mind clear but blank. She followed a guard to Vasilisa's office where five other guards stood at the ready. She was silent as Vasilisa greeted her with barely concealed nervousness and bravado, as she was informed that the training facility where Petya was being held had been destroyed. Natasha did not speak when commanded to prepare the Red Room for attack nor when ordered to answer. Instead, she waited until she stopped talking and shot everyone in the room, stabbing Vasilisa painfully with knife over and over. She cut through the Red Room's defenses like a scythe through wheat, even as a bullet burst through her side, then her arm, then her leg.

For Petya, with nothing else to lose, she escaped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought of it (especially of Petya)!


	3. To be lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this was rather long in the making. This chapter gave me a HECK of a ton of trouble and it’s STILL, like, twice as long as my other chapters. So, uh, let me know what you think haha? But hey, thank you all SO SO MUCH for all of your absolutely lovely comments. If you haven’t noticed, I’ve been squealing over all of them XD
> 
>  
> 
> Also: Richard, Mary, Ben, and May are a mix of the Amazing Spider-man movies, Homecoming, what I know of the comics, and some head-canons I’ve taken on because of fanfiction. So they’re probably a little ooc, and the back story is a little different. I like them this way though so hopefully it’s cool?
> 
>  
> 
> Also no. 2: I apologize in advance for any inaccuracies in my representation of the CIA, the foster and adoption systems, the immigration process for unaccompanied minors and refugees, etc etc. Most of it is based on a) the CIA website, b) this document on the URM program ([http://www.usccb.org/about/children-and-migration/unaccompanied-refugee-minor-program/upload/united-states-unaccompanied-refugee-minor-program-guiding-principles-and-promising-practices.pdf]), c) a few articles, and d) what I needed to happen in the plot. Everything with the CIA was especially inaccurate, but you know. #PlotBeforeAccuracy

_Age three, eight months since being taken from the Red Room_

\----

Petya heard footsteps approach and stop at the bars of his concrete room, and he tensed, waiting as still as possible as keys were pushed into the door lock and twisted.

The door screeched open.

“Up,” someone commanded, and with permission finally given, Petya immediately scrambled out of bed and stood, head down, trying not to fidget. Though his hair, he watched the guard who came in cautiously. It was one of the soldiers that took him from Mama’s instructors and blew up the training building. The one that had tied a bandana around his mouth so he wouldn’t talk in the truck as they sped away.

Petya wouldn’t dare talk now, even if it had been someone else. He looked back at the ground and brought his shoulders up slightly.

The soldier gave the small room a cursory, bored look over as he came in, as they always did. Sighing when he saw nothing out of place, he grabbed Petya’s shoulder and shoved him toward the door. “Go to the lab,” he commanded.

Petya stumbled out and quickly obeyed, walking as fast as he could without running so the soldier wouldn’t get annoyed and hit him like last week.

When he reached the lab door, he stopped at its right, back to the wall, and waited for the soldier to open it.

The soldier slowed to a stop only a foot away from Petya, and he cringed subconsciously. The soldier paused in unlocking the door, staring at Petya. Abruptly, he snorted, pushing open the door. “Go on then. Get on your table.”

Petya rushed inside, relieved. Sometimes, the guards liked to test him and leave him waiting. He couldn’t do anything without permission and they needed to remind him of that, Petya knew, but he still hated it.

It took a minute for Petya to get to his table. The lab room was large, and Petya’s table was on the opposite side of the room, past several glass barriers.

“…think we should focus on intelligence,” Petya heard one of the doctors, the man, say as he grew close enough. “We’ve been working on reflexes and strength for months, and he’s obviously intelligent—“

“I don’t know,” the woman said as Petya rounded the corner. Glancing at the soldier once, he entered the enclosure carefully. The female doctor was pulling a cart of instruments toward his table, and her eyes flickered to Petya when she noticed him before going back to the conversation. “Neither of the parents had enhanced intelligence. I say we go back to the senses.”

Petya’s throat tightened at the mention of his parents, and the soldier had to push him forwards when he slowed down, making him trip. Wincing, he reached the table and wriggled himself up to sit on its cold metal surface, hoping they’d talk about his parents more. They rarely did around him, and he was beginning to forget what he knew of them, even his mother whom he had memories of.

“He’s only three; I doubt we’ll see any improvement in his senses yet,” the male doctor said, coming over to Petya and eyeing him critically. He lifted Petya’s chin, making the boy flinch. The doctor didn’t seem to notice. “His eyesight certainly hasn’t improved,” he said dismissively, and Petya ducked his head when he was released. “I feel I can _see_ the beginning of eye failure. Two more years, and he’ll need glasses, I know it.”

The female doctor scoffed, leaned down to look into Petya’s eyes as he tried not to back away, and shook her head. She straightened and turned back to the cart. “Ridiculous. He has perfect vision.”

“But no more than perfect!” the other doctor quickly countered, pointing at his partner triumphantly. “There’s no sign of enhancement, and certainly nothing close to his parents’ level. Intelligence is our best bet. Nothing else is as promising.”

The female doctor looked skeptical, and they both stopped to eye each other, the woman folding her arms and drumming her fingers and the man looking hopeful. Petya just watched and wondered what was going on. They wanted to test how smart he was?

“Reflexes,” the female doctor offered after a pause. “We could look more into how the enhancements were passed down. The genetics.”

“You know they don’t care about that sort of thing.”

The woman’s nose wrinkled. “You think they’ll care about intelligence more?”

The man shrugged.

Drummed her fingers a few moments more, she finally sighing and letting her arms drop to her sides. “Alright,” she said, resigned. “What tests did you bring?”

The male doctor grinned and began babbling about everything he’d wanted to try, and Petya relaxed slightly. They were going to do intelligence tests. Intelligence tests sounded good. Not like the other tests.

They turned put to be quite easy for Petya, and the next few weeks went well for him. He grasped basic math they taught him very easily, within a month already working on advanced addition and subtraction, and the beginnings of multiplication and division. Reading was equally easy, and the doctors were soon having him read primary-level books. He was years ahead of other kids his age. The doctors were very happy with the results. They said he must have “genius-level intelligence.”

With the doctors so pleased and Petya performing so well, they rarely felt the need to punish the boy. Petya lost only a few meals that month, and for the first time since he’d been snatched and placed here, he didn’t have to try and hide his hunger. He was even allowed to ask the occasional question about his lessons. The doctors were always excited by the types of questions he asked. They were more complex than other kids’ his age according to the doctors.

Petya was happy with the changes, he guessed, but they scared him. The doctors were being too nice. They were letting him eat and actually talk. They talked to _him_ like he was able to think. And he didn’t understand why. It was too new, too sudden. Too unpredictable.

It wasn’t until the end of the month that Petya finally began to grow used to the change, but at that time, everything changed again.

Two men entered the lab that day. One, the leader, stomped in. He glared at the room, startling the doctors and intimidating them into submission. The other followed much more quietly, almost unnoticeably. He walked smoothly but held himself stiffly, flesh hand resting near the gun at his hip.

But Petya’s eyes were immediately drawn to the the man’s other arm, the metal one. It was mesmerizing. He hadn’t known arms could look like that. How could something make of metal move so—so person-like? His eyes flickered between it and the leader, torn between wanting to watch the threat and wanting to examine the arm.

The doctors had no such trouble, immediately glancing at each other and backing up slightly when the men approached, uniformly turning to the leader.

The leader glared at the doctors, barely even noticing Petya behind them, and made a gesture with his hand. The doctors copied, not speaking a word, though Petya thought he spotted the male doctor start to say something during the gesture before the leader gave him pointed, murderous look and his mouth snapped shut.

Tension hung thickly over the room, the leader seeming to want them to stew and the doctors too worried to speak first.

Finally, the leader broke the thick, uncertain silence, viciously spitting, "I'm _tired_ of being _patient_.”

"Commander, we just need a little more time—"

"You’ve had nine months," he sneered. "Tell me the results you have. Now."

The female doctor swallowed, gathering her thoughts quickly. "We know the boy is highly intelligent. He's too young to test conclusively, but he's easily a genius."

"Because of his parent's enhancements?"

Petya tensed. The leader knew about his parents.

The female doctor shifted uncomfortably. "Neither had enhanced intelligence. We have no reason to believe the boy's is either."

The commander's brow lowered and his eyes darkened dangerously. "So you've learned nothing," he said in a low tone.

"No!" the female doctor said. "His reflexes are better than average. We believe this is a secondhand enhancement."

"You believe," he said flatly.

"It's a—strong theory.”

"It's speculation," the commander growled, and the doctor winced, bowing her head. The other doctor followed suit.

"Forgive me, commander."

Petya watched with wide eyes as the commander fumed, fists clenching and unclenching. Jerkily, he turned away and stared at the man with the metal arm. Slowly his shoulders seemed to relax, and still facing away, the man spoke again, this time speculative. "His parents... they both had enhanced pain resistance."

The man with the metal arm’s eyes creased minutely, but they smoothed out a split-second later. The commander looked smug when he turned back around.

Petya’s heart froze with fear, and any hope he had for this conversation going well disappeared.

The doctors glanced at each other hesitantly. "Commander, I would ask you to reconsider,” the female doctor said carefully. “He’s not yet ready for the research that requires.”

"Why?" the commander said, a hint of mockery in his tone. His decision was already made.

"He's too young."

The commander scoffed. "He's three."

The woman grew almost frustrated. “His development could be seriously harmed—"

"You have two weeks to hand in your initial results," the commander cut her off self-importantly, walking to the door. The man with the metal arm followed.

"Commander, this may be our only chance to study the child of two enhanced people!" the female doctor exclaimed, suddenly courageous.

The man with the metal arm drew his gun and had it pointed at the doctor almost too fast to register. The doctor stepped back and swallowed, courage instantly lost.

The commander smiled with his teeth. "If you won’t do it, I'll find someone else,” he said simply, eyes gleaming, and left.

The man with the metal arm lingered a split second, eyes flicking to Petya's, before he lowered his gun and walked out.

And Petya slumped, feeling oddly abandoned.

\----

The boy stumbled tiredly out of the lab room, limbs shaky. The doctors were still studying his reaction to different sorts of pain, and today, it had been electric shocks again. No matter how he tried, no matter how scared he was to show it, he couldn’t seem to hide how it affected him. He felt like he could throw up.

The male doctor, who had started to take him back to his room instead of the guards to keep an eye on his health, pulled open the door of bars to his room, and Petya walked inside quietly. "Sit or lie down. No walking around," the doctor ordered, pausing only a second to watch Petya sit on the bed.

Waiting till the footsteps grew quiet and the door to the lab re-closed, Petya curled up and pulled the bed’s blanket onto his shoulders, burrowing his head in his knees. The guards had never liked him to relax around them, and Petya was sure the doctors wouldn’t either. Now, only one of the cleaning guys was there, and they never cared about anything.

Petya felt his shaking worsen, and he curled up tighter, squeezing his eyes shut and trying not to cry. His muscles hurt, and the last couple weeks had been too long. It had been bad before, of course, but not like _this_. Never like this.

He missed his mama.

Petya sobbed once, but quickly stifled it and tried to force himself to think of something else. He tried to picture her. She had red hair, at least he thought she did. Long, red hair. And she talked in a quiet, calm sort of way. Warm, nothing like anyone here. She’d cared.

The swishing of the mop outside kinda reminded him of her. It sounded like the times she used to tie on soft shoes and fly around the room. He wished he could remember why.

Petya lay down, back pushed up against the wall, and pulled the blanket further up over his head, imagining his mother flying to get him. She’d fly on a ribbon, a white ribbon. Not white like the lab; white like his blanket. Or maybe like those fluffs he saw through the ceiling once, a long time ago. He’d asked Mama about them, and her eyes had been sad.

A sudden, soft clanking noise startled him, and his eyes shot open.

The cleaning man was looking at him through the bars.

Petya's eyes went wide with fear, and he froze, throat growing tight and his shaking coming back with a vengeance.

The cleaning man put his hands up, palms out, and took a step back. "Hey, hey, it's alright," he said quietly in a weird voice, as if he didn't know how to say the words right. "I won't hurt you."

Petya didn't move, didn’t speak, and didn’t relax one bit.

The man lowered his hands slowly, and Petya noticed for the first time that he held a something made of metal. "That's right," the man said when he noticed Petya looking at the device. "I’m getting you out. Away to a safe place."

Petya watched silently as the man put the metal thing in the door lock and wriggled it around until there was a clink and the door swung open.

The man muttered something triumphantly that sounded like the English word for yes and walked up and kneeling by the bed. Petya cringed back. His hands were shaking so violently that the blanket was visibly rustling, but the man’s eyes looked worried and nervous. He had a big, black beard, too, and a dull brown, knit hat that hid most of his face.

"Ok, we need to go now," the man whispered. "Can you follow me very quiet?"

Petya desperately wished to bury himself under the blankets and hide away, but if there was one thing he’d learned here, it was that saying no was _never_ an option. He nodded, unable to get his voice to work.

"Good," the man said, relief obvious in his voice, standing and gesturing for Petya to follow him out the door. Petya did, wobbling slightly.

They crept down the hall to the lab, the cleaning man muttering to himself strangely sometimes, and he wriggled the metal device in the lab door’s lock, same as before. Moments later, the door popped open, and the man disappeared inside. Petya froze, unsure what to do without any command, but only seconds later, the man was back out of the room, shoving the doctors' notebook and a yellow file in his cleaning bag.

"Come on, time to go," the man muttered to Petya, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder and guiding him down the hall and out the door at the end. They turned several corners before reaching metal doors that Petya vaguely recognized from over a year ago, when he was brought here. They were leaving.

Petya’s eyes went wide, head shooting up to stare at the cleaning man. He was tapping his fingers against his bag nervously, glancing between his watch and the door repeatedly. What was going on? Was he being taken again? What if he was going to people even worse than the ones here?

When the doors dinged and opened, the man guided Petya inside with a heavy hand, greeting the two men already inside. One looked like a guard, and the other was wearing a dirty suit and looked very tired. Both spoke the same way the cleaning man did.

Petya pressed into a corner, staying as far away from them as possible, and folded his arms tightly around himself. He was still shaking.

He tried to follow the strangers conversation, but he couldn’t. It was another another way of speaking, a “language,” he realized at last. A familiar language. He almost knew a few words, but they spoke too quickly for him to follow.

The little room suddenly slowed, and the cleaning man quickly said, “Hide,” and pushed Petya’s head down. Petya curled up on the ground as the man stepped in from of him, and the guard grabbed a hold of the tired man's arm roughly.

A doctor stepped in, yawning, and pressed one of the buttons on the wall.

As the room began to move up again, the doctor glanced at the guard and the tired man.

"Why’s the American here?" the doctor said, gesturing to the tired guy.

"Transferring to a new facility," the guard said. The doctor didn't notice his weird voice. Petya wondered if he spoke funny because he was American too.

"Interesting," the doctor said disinterestedly, turning to the cleaning man and gaining a semi-puzzled expression. For a split second, he looked as though he’d speak, but then he faced the door and shook his head. The doors beeped a moment later, and he stepped out of the little room, the doors closing behind him again. The others relaxed, and the cleaning guy helped Petya back to his feet gently.

When the doors opened again only seconds later, they all stepped out, the cleaning guy guiding Petya out first. They walked quickly through the halls, meeting up with several others along the way, one of which opened a door to the outside. The bright light that came through hurt Petya’s eyes, and he blinked rapidly.

"Hey!" someone called behind them, and several of the people around Petya exclaimed and swore. The cleaning man picked Petya up and sprinted out the door, the others following, and Petya flinched as gunshots and shouts rang out behind them. Everyone was shouting and running now, and Petya squeezed his eyes shut and bit his lip, reminded horribly of the last time people had taken him away and brought him here.

Someone close by yelled in pain, and the others shouted. Just then, they reached the tree line, and the shouting behind them quickly became muffled. Petya peaked over the cleaning man's shoulder and only saw a few running after them, including the guard and the tired man and another two supporting each other.

A giant whumping sound became louder and louder as they fled, and the wind became stronger stronger, whippung up Petya's hair and clothes when they reached open air again. The cleaning man shouted something and ducked as he ran up to a huge, green machine with a big blur on the top of it. When they got inside, Petya opened his eyes from their squint and watched wide-eyed as others jumped in. Everyone was shouting, and someone buckled Petya into a seat. A few bullets hit the machine's side, and the shouting increased, people inside pulling others in. Some were shooting at the people coming out of the trees.

Suddenly, someone banged the ceiling of the machine and shouted, and it wobbled and began to rise in the air. There were a few more shots before they were too high up for the people on the ground to reach and those inside closed the machine's doors, making it quieter and calmer inside.

Petya watched shakily as everyone—there were seven of them—congratulated each other and began to look at wounds. One had a bullet in his leg, and the tired man looked like he was about to pass out.

Something heavy and big was placed on Petya's head and over his ears, and he flinched and focused on the person next to him. It was the cleaning man. His hat was replaced by a big black device over his ears, and his eyes looked happy now.

He finished adjusting the device over Petya's ears, and the whumping sound outside became quieter.

"Is that better?" the man said, and Petya heard him through the device over his ears. His eyes widened, and he brought a hand up and touched it hesitantly. The devices allowed them to hear and talk to each other.

When he nodded, the man smiled, but it fell when Petya didn’t return, replaced by concern. "Are you ok?"

Petya hesitated and opted for nodding again. His throat still felt too tight to speak through.

The man put a hand on Petya's shoulder, noticing his shivering, and Petya cringed slightly. The man immediately pulled back, looking stricken. "We will get on a new plane soon. It will have quiet, so we will hear without...” he motioned to the device covering his ears.

Petya only nodded.

It felt like a long time had passed to Petya when they finally began to descend. The tired man had fallen asleep, and the man who was shot had had his wound cleaned and wrapped in cloth and was starting to relax.

They landed with a thump and rumble. The cleaning man helped Petya take off the ear-coverers, and he picked the boy up and jumped onto solid ground, bending to avoid the turning blur on top of the 'plane,' even as it began to wind down.

They ran to the new plane and arrived quickly. It was much, much bigger, white with stairs to reach the entrance. Inside, there were big chairs facing each other across tables with a path down the middle for walking. Petya was placed on a chair towards the middle of the plane, next to a window, and buckled in securely. The cleaning man sat on Petya's other side, and the guard and the man who'd helped clean the bullet wound—a doctor—sat across from them.

The doctor asked a question, glancing at Petya, and the cleaning man answered. Turning, he said his next words to the boy. "Hey, uh, you still ok?"

Petya nodded.

"Good, good. Can you answer a few questions for me?"

Petya nodded again, this time more hesitantly. “Yes,” he forced himself to say aloud, voice shaky.

Glancing at the others, the cleaning man shifted uncomfortably and turned his body to face the boy. "Uh, first. First, uh, what's your name?"

Petya opened his mouth but paused, unsure what to say.

"What did your parents call you?" the man prompted.

The bot struggled a moment and finally whispered, “Petya.”

"Petya?" the cleaning man repeated, smiling. "That's good, a good name. My name is Will, and they are Rick and Charlie." He pointed at the doctor and the guard respectively.

The doctor—Rick—said something to Will involving Petya's name, and Will nodded, saying a word in return before turning back to his questioning.

"Do you know your full name, Petya?"

The boy took a moment to try and remember. "Pyotr..."

Will and Rick shared a look. "Anything else? Last name?"

Petya twisted his hands together. "No?"

"How old are you?" Will said, drawing out the words.

"Three," Petya murmured, certain in his answer.

Charlie—the guard—spoke for the first time, and the others responded in turn. Will patted his bag, and the others nodded.

"We should let you sleep,” Will said. “Do you have any questions?"

Petya floundered a moment. He was allowed questions? Which questions should he ask?

"A-are you speaking...English?" he finally decided, saying the question softly.

The cleaning man looked surprised. "Yes,” the man said at last, “how did you know?"

Petya looked down and shrugged.

"Do you recognize anything we say?"

“A little,” the boy said, ringing his hands nervously.

Will leaned back. "And you don’t remember being taught it, yes? Maybe you knew it when you we're younger.” Petya shrugged, and Will continued. ”Any other questions?"

Petya nearly didn’t speak—he didn’t want to get in trouble for talking too much—, but he had to know.

"Who are you taking me too?"

"CIA," Will answered simply. "As a CIA leading mission, they have responsibility, not the army.” He gestured at the others during the last word.

Petya didn't ask what that meant, and the conversation trailed off, takeoff interrupting what was left of it. The boy fell asleep hoping the CIA would have to restart the tests so the pain ones wouldn’t happen for a while. Maybe he’d even get to talk more, or at least a bit more.

\----

Richard Parker was a scientist, first and foremost, and as such, most of his life revolved around or was made possible by his love of science.

He'd met his wife because they were partners in the same post-grad project, for example, and one of their favorite ways to interact, both then and now, was through intellectual discussion, the exchange of ideas. It caused this spark to pass between them, an excitement and joy to have someone who understood. Science was their shared love.

From a young age, Richard had had this love in the form of a scientific curiosity, an urge to question anything. It was one of his most prized qualities, one he encouraged in those around him, and one of his greatest assets.

It also got him into trouble, and that was how he found himself pausing on the way to a serious meeting he really shouldn’t be late for.

A young boy, perhaps two years old, sat on the ground of the hall, alone unless one counted the two arguing men at least five meters away. The kid was thin, very thin with unkempt brown hair, dull clothes, and unhealthily pale skin. His eyes were pointed down, and he seemed uncertain, looking at his knees and gently tracing patterns on them with a finger.

Feeling both curious and slightly concerned, Richard made the split-second decision to postpone his meeting.

Approaching, he knelt on the ground before the boy, and the kid’s eyes snapped up to meet his. They were blue, neither dull nor bright, but surprisingly expressive. Richard could see fear but also a wary curiosity.

"Do you need any help?" Richard asked evenly.

The boy's eyes flickered to the two arguing men and back again.

Richard glanced at them also. "Are they looking after you, acting as your guardians?"

The boy didn't respond. Looking unsure, he slowly tapped his ear and shrugged.

Richard’s eyes widened. "Are you deaf?" he asked, signing as best he could from what he could remember. He’d had a friend who was learning ASL, and he’d picked some of it up from her. The kid only looked more confused though. Richard must have used the wrong signs. Or maybe the boy used a different sign language?

Before he could begin to worry, the boy spoke quietly in hesitant English. "I know Russian...lit-little English."

Richard grinned, face lighting up with understanding and relief. "Russian! That's great!" One of the science projects he’d been a part of—the one where he'd met Mary—was started to encourage Russian-American relations. Very good and exciting program, but you had to learn Russian. It hadn't bothered Richard too much, and now, he was _very_ glad for it. "This is perfect, let me just think..." Richard consciously switched languages. His Russian was a little rusty. "I know some Russian. Is this better?"

The boy’s shoulders relaxed, and he nodded with obvious relief. "Yes, thank you."

Richard rose an eyebrow. "Very polite, for a young boy. And your English wasn’t bad."

The kid ducked his head.

"Huh," Richard murmured to himself thoughtfully. Remembering his purpose, he refocused on Petya. "I was asking if you needed help? Are those men your...what word...? Well, are they the ones caring for you?"

The boy shrugged minutely. "They brought me on the plane." He said 'plane' very carefully, like it was a new word he didn't want to mispronounce.

Richard struggled with what to say next, resisting the urge to ask why. "What's your name? My name’s Richard," he finally settled on saying.

The boy looked up. "Petya," he said, eyes unsure and questioning even as his voice remained quiet and factual. It was a strange combination.

"Good name," he said, holding out a hand without thinking. He was just about to pull it back when Petya slipped a hand in his and shook it. His hand was very small. "It’s nice to meet you, Petya," Richard said, smiling.

Petya gave a very weak smile back. “Nice to meet you.”

"Alright," Richard said, feeling lighter. "I'm going to ask those men what's happening. I'll be right back, ok?"

Petya nodded and wrapped his arms back around his knees.

Richard smiled reassuringly and stood, legs protesting at the movement. It made him feel like an old man. He wasn't even thirty yet, what was with the creaky knees?

Shaking his head, Richard walked purposely over to the bickering men. "Gentlemen," he said, putting on what Mary called his I-have-a-doctorate face. "Are either of you responsible for the child?" He nodded back towards Petya.

Both men looked frustrated, and the one on the left spoke first. " _He_ is."

“ _He_ ” huffed and glared. "I couldn't just leave him!"

Looking very much like he was barely holding back an explosion, the first man purposely turned to face Richard and gave him a sharp once over. "Who are you?" he said harshly.

Richard raised an eyebrow and stuck out a hand. "Doctor Richard Parker. DS&T, Biology lab. You?"

The man straightened and shook his hand firmly. "Issac Miller. I oversee some of the operations officers, including Henderson." He said the last name bitterly, and Henderson’s nose wrinkled sourly.

"Will," Henderson said pointedly, reaching out and shaking Richard's hand a little too strongly.

Richard chose to ignore the pair’s passive-aggression. "What's happening with the child?” he said, bringing them back to the subject at hand. ”Where’s his family?"

"That’s what we were discussing," Issac Miller said, avoiding the question deftly. "Now if you’ll please—“

“You must have brought him back from your mission unauthorized, right?”

Issac paused, pulling a surprisingly convincing look of bafflement. "What mission?”

Richard crossed his arms. “Oh, don’t try that. It’s obvious. You found him, maybe in Russia? Rescued him from a bad situation and brought him here.”

“I certainly didn’t,” Isaac said, miffed, and Richard rolled his eyes.

“Will then,” he said. He became serious. “Look, I’m just worried about the kid.” Richard’s gaze drifted back to Petya. He looked so _small_. “It doesn’t look like you’ll be sending him back,” he murmured slowly, a thought suddenly striking him, and he turned his eyes back on Will and Issac. “You don’t _want_ to send him back. That’s why you’re discussing it. You admitted that.”

“Wait one minute—“

Richard straightened, mind made up. “I can offer you another option. If you aren’t taking him back to Russia.”

Issac stared at him with genuine bafflement this time, but Richard pushed on determinedly.

“I’ll take care of him," he said. “It’s at least something to present to your superior; I’ll even come along to help you pitch it.”

"Listen, doctor, we can't just _take you with us_ ," Issac said disbelievingly. "This is classified."

"You can inform your superior, and I'll wait outside. I already guessed some of the situation anyway," Richard reasoned, standing his ground firmly, then becoming softer. “Besides, I...I really think I could help Petya. It doesn’t seem right to leave him to be transferred from organization to organization alone.” Richard rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly self-conscious. “He’s already suffered so much.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Will murmured, eyes flickering to Petya sadly.

Issac wrestled with the issue, glancing between Richard and Will repeatedly, before finally giving up with a sigh. "Fine. Follow if you want. But you’ll be waiting to see Jack a long time if he even decides to see you."

Will went and retrieved Petya, who looked relieved to see Richard again.

Richard smiled. Maybe his spontaneity and opportunism would work well for once.

\----

Mary gaped at him. “You did WHAT?”

Richard winced. He definitely should have called her earlier.

He had just gotten home, hours later than he should have if his day had gone to plan. His meeting—which he _had_ called in to reschedule—would have only been an hour, and Mary finished work an hour after that. But instead of meeting her at home, he had spent several long hours at the CIA, part of it waiting and part of it discussing Petya’s “options,” which were very few.

The boy probably shouldn’t have been brought to the states in the first place, but now that he was here, they were all hesitant to bring in the Russian government. They had no way of identifying Petya, no way of finding his parents. All they had was a notebook and a thin file which, according to Will, only told them that the kid’s parents had been enhanced. Petya’s captors hadn’t been privy to the identities of these two enhanced people, leaving practically no information for the CIA to use in a search for them. Petya was effectively stateless: no birth certificate and no known family or place of birth to prove his citizenship to Russia or anywhere else.

Beyond that, none of them were willing to fully trust that the Russian government hadn’t been involved in the whole mess. Will and the military unit had witnessed too much that seemed to point to official support, and the place had been very secretive. There had been no sign of who provided this support. Of course, they didn’t want to assume the government _was_ involved, but they also didn’t want to assume they _weren’t_.

Contacting Russia was unofficially ruled out early on, which left them with few other choices.

In the end, Issac and Will’s superior decided it would be simpler—though not quite orthodox—to have Richard call in the HHS and the Unaccompanied Refugee Minor (URM) program in DC. The CIA wouldn’t be directly involved this way, and hopefully, they’d be able to successfully argue for Petya to be given refugee status. They just had to convince the courts that enhanced people were a persecuted social group. Then, because Petya would be going through the refugee application process, Richard could apply as his sponsor, something very necessary that few if anyone else would volunteer to do and something that almost required him and Mary to foster the kid.

Richard spent most of the conversation convincing them all that he truly wanted to sponsor and foster Petya. He mentioned his and his wife’s fluency in Russian, of course, and how he and Petya had developed a rudimentary, hopefully positive connection already. It would be more traumatic for the kid to move from person to person to person and have to reconnect with each. But it wasn’t until Richard described how he genuinely cared for Petya now, regardless of how little time it had been and however much this had been a very rash, spontaneous decision, that they believed him. Minutes later, a plan was formulated. Richard called the URM, who directed him to the HHS, who sent people to pick Petya up, and that was that.

Richard still didn’t understand why exactly he felt so strongly that this was something he needed to do, but as he mulled over his day, oddly bereft and alone with Petya gone, he remembered. He’d had several moments in his life similar to this where he’d been presented with an opportunity and felt immediately compelled to take it up. He had decided to join the CIA, for example, as soon as someone offered it to him though it had never been something he imagined himself doing.

His wife, however, knew little of his day or his thoughts on the issue and was very _un_ impressed.

In hindsight, saying, “ _I found a kid, and I think we’ll get to foster him_ ,” was _not_ the best way to introduce such a thing.

“What?!” she repeated.

“It’s not that bad,” Richard said defensively, voice going a little squeaky, then winced again. “I mean, this isn’t bad at all! Look, Mary, this kid really needs our help! He might never find his parents again. He’s all alone.”

“Oh my god,” Mary groaned, dropping her head in her hands and running her fingers through her short, brown hair. “Richard, you can’t just decide to foster a kid. There’s a _process_ for shit like this.” Her head snapped back up, eyes wild. “We might not even qualify! I cuss, like, all the time!”

“I don’t think swearing has to do—“

“Oh, it so does!” Mary said with all the paranoia of conspiracy theorist. “And look at the state of our house: crap food everywhere, boxes to the ceiling!”

Richard looked around hesitantly. Mary was usually the calm one, and he had no idea how to approach her right now. “So it’s a little messy,” he tried to play it off. “That’s mostly because of the move.”

“And that’s another thing!” she said, latching onto his last word immediately. “We’d have to cancel your transfer to New York! You think we could move if we were fostering? No!”

Richard stepped forward and put both hands on her shoulders. “Hey, calm down. It’s ok. I have everything figured out.” She sent him a skeptical look, and he rushed on. “No, really! Since Oscorp came to me, I can just call and tell them that there was an emergency and that I’ll have to work from their DC location for the foreseeable future. And the people at your work love you. It’ll be easy for you to take back your two-week notice.”

“We might not even foster this kid,” Mary repeated, bewildered and lost.

“Just...” Richard hesitated. “...just let me explain.”

“I don’t—Richard, this is so fast,” she said, strained. “We— _I_ —have no idea how to care for child. And he’s probably _traumatized_. Oh god.” Her head thumped on his chest.

“Mary, _please_ ,” Richard begged.

She took a deep breath and let it out, and after a moment, she straightened and gestured for him to speak. Gone was the frantic, overwhelmed person of before, and in its place was the logic-driven, focused, determined woman Richard knew best, the one that always called him on his bullshit and corrected his melodrama.

“Alright,” she said. “Ok. Explain.”

So Richard told her everything, from Petya’s rather dire situation to how Richard had found him to where Petya was now. Through it all, Mary was quiet, allowing him to talk without interruption.

When he finished, she considered his words carefully for several minutes as Richard waited nervously.

“What is the boy, Petya, like?” she finally asked softly, and Richard grinned before becoming more somber.

“He’s quiet. Very quiet really. And he’s extremely well spoken for a three-year-old.” Richard paused. “He seems curious and lively, under it all.”

“He probably had to suppress that because of his situation,” Mary murmured, lost in thought. Letting out a breath slowly, she looked her husband in the eyes seriously. “Listen,” she said carefully. “I understand why you want to help him. I—I think we should too. But...you know this will hard, right? Harder than we could imagine now.”

Richard sighed. “I know, believe me. But it will be worth it. We just can’t leave him to go through this alone.”

Mary searched his eyes and nodded, turning away to grab a notebook. “Well, we’d better have a plan. A _better_ plan,” she added with a stern look when Richard tried to object.

Richard rolled his eyes and conceded, relieved to see Mary back to normal. This would work.

\----

A week after they applied to be Petya’s sponsors, they were granted permission. Two weeks later, they were well on their way to becoming his foster parents. They and most everyone involved was eager to remove him from the juvenile detention center. Petya would most likely be living with them by the end of the month.

The last few weeks had been some of the most hectic in Richard and Mary’s lives. Their jobs had to be secured, and their home had to be taken off the market. Their entire move, including the flight to New York and the down-payment of the apartment they would have been relocating to, had to be retracted. _And_ their home had to be refit so it was child-friendly, which included buying anything Petya may need: clothes, toiletries, eating utensils, blankets and pillows, a safe bed, a booster seat, proper entertainment... the list went on.

Both had been allowed to meet with Petya several times, especially as they were now his sponsors. They tried to see him every day though it wasn’t always possible. Today, however, they would be introducing Petya to their home, and Richard was surprisingly nervous.

They were well prepared. The house was all ready and clean. He and Mary had discussed everything extensively multiple times, and the foster system people had approved of their set up so far. Yet here he was, pacing.

Mary, of course, was completely calm, and she sent him exasperated looks every few seconds.

“Richard, you should really sit down,” she said again, but Richard ignored her in favor of looking out the window for the hundredth time.

“I’m fine,” he denied absently, and Mary sighed.

“You’re driving me crazy,” she said.

“Aren’t you even a little nervous?” Richard asked, flopping into the armchair across from the small couch she was lounging on, phone in hand like she was 15, not 25. “You were before.”

“Last time, I didn’t know what was going on,” she said matter-of-factly. “Now I do, so there’s little to be nervous about.”

“Right,” Richard scoffed under his breath.

She raised an eyebrow, and Richard shrugged and began to tap his fingers on the armrest of his chair.

Just then, there was a knock on the door, and Richard immediately jumped up and rushed to the front of their apartment. As he moved, Mary set aside her phone and stood to follow him.

Richard glanced back at Mary, hand on the door, and when she nodded, he twisted the handle and pulled it open.

A black-haired woman, the caseworker assigned by the URM, stood in the hall, her hand rested on Petya’s shoulder. Petya himself was looking healthier than ever, a little more filled out, though still abnormally skinny, and with a little more color in his skin. He looked flushed from the cold, actually, and he was wearing the yellow raincoat Mary picked out for him to protect against the wind. When Richard met his eyes, he smiled shyly, which made Richard relax and smile back.

“May we come in?” the woman, Ellie, asked in Russian, a little amused.

Richard’s eyes snapped up to meet hers, and he blushed slightly. “Oh, yes!” he responded, opening the door fully and gesturing inside. “Please, come in.”

“Thank you,” she said as she passed, and Petya copied, hesitantly taking off his shoes and coat by the door.

“It’s no problem,” Richard assured. “Uh, feel free to sit anywhere.”

“Would you like anything to drink?” Mary asked. “Some water maybe?”

Ellie sat beside Petya on the sofa. “Yes, actually. Water would be wonderful,” she said, and Mary fled to the adjoining kitchen, leaving Richard to hesitantly take his previous spot in the armchair.

They waited silently, and only a few moments later, Mary returned with a glass of water in hand, which she handed to Ellie.

“Thank you,” Ellie said, accepting it calmly.

“My pleasure,” Mary said. After s moment’s indecision, she sat on the armrest beside Richard.

Ellie took a sip of water before setting the glass on the table to her left and speaking. “There’s not much to go over,” she began. “As I was telling Petya on the way here, you’ll just show him around. You’re welcome to take him outside too. The park across the street seems nice. Most important thing to remember: you only have an hour to an hour and a half, so stick to the highlights.” They nodded, and she smiled. “I’ll sit here until you’re done. I have paperwork to fill out, as always,” she finished humorously, obviously trying to relax them, but though he and Mary laughed, the mention of paperwork make them all the more nervous.

“Petya, would you like to look around now?” Ellie said, turning to face the boy.

Petya nodded slowly, and Ellie smiled. “I’ll leave you all to it then,” she said, gesturing for them all to get on their way and pulling out her paperwork, tactfully turning her attention away to give them a sense of privacy.

Petya hesitantly approached Richard and Mary, who both got out of their sears and knelt to meet him. Glancing at Ellie, he waved at them. “Hi.”

Richard attempted a reassuring smile and waved back. “Hey.”

There was an awkward silence filled only with the rustle of papers from Ellie, and Petya looked down, ringing his hands. Richard winced.

“So,” Mary said, saving the situation. “You’ve already seen the hallway and the living room.” She motioned to the room at large, and Petya nodded, eyes peeking up through the fringe of his hair. “Should we start with the kitchen?” she finished.

“Ok,” Petya said quietly.

“And remember you’re free to ask any question you’d like, even if it seems silly,” Richard added quietly. They had told him so many times before, knowing he’d been taught to be quiet by his captors, but given the newness of this situation, Richard thought it would be helpful to repeat.

Petya nodded again, and after a brief pause, Mary and Richard stood and began showing him around.

It was awkward at first, but after they were out of Ellie’s way, they all became slightly more comfortable. Mary started to joke and tease as she usually did—making an effort to keep her humor much more appropriate than usual which made Richard snicker. Petya also relaxed, giggling a bit at her jokes and eventually asking questions. He wasn’t familiar with the microwave or American light switches, and the carpet seemed to fascinate him. He kept wriggling his toes in it, which made Mary and Richard grin, suddenly happy to have it though they’d always hated carpeting before.

When they showed him his room, however, he froze and stared at it with wide eyes.

Richard and Mary peeked over his shoulder into the room. It was simple, with white walls, a twin-sized bed without a frame, a wooden dresser and small set of storage cubbies, and a pair of curtains at the window. All of the colors and patterns were simple as well: blues, purples, and white in stripes, polka dots, or solid patterns. The one exception was the rainbow rag rug at the center of the room.

They chose simple furnishings mainly because neither liked all of the commercialism in kids’ products nowadays but also because they felt it would only confuse Petya since he must be unfamiliar with it all. Now, Richard wondered if perhaps the room was _too_ simple. Maybe it was intimidating? Maybe it reminded him of his captivity.

“Petya?” Mary asked softly, and the boy startled, looking up at them and then back at the room, slowly moving inside. Richard and Mary followed, watching uncertainly as he approached the 2-by-3 set of cubbies. His eyes just peaked over the top, and he gently reached out to touch the spines of a small stack of books, almost not touching them at all.

Richard glanced at Mary and tried to explain. “We know you probably can’t read yet, and most of the books are English, but we thought they might be nice—soon. When you start to learn.” Richard winced as Petya turned his wide-eyed stare on him, and he sped up his explanation nervously. “The room’s a bit grown-up, and—and we haven’t gotten anything to do besides books. We didn’t know what you liked—“

Richard froze as Petya suddenly launched forward and hugged him. The boy stepped back a second later. “Sorry,” he said, ducking his head. “I—“ he started, but it was Richard’s turn to interrupt him: he knelt and pulled the boy back into a hug.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” he murmured, and Petya let his head rest on Richard’s shoulder. A moment later, he felt the head shift to face Mary, and she dropped down and hugged them both too.

“Thanks for the room,” Petya whispered. “And the books. I know how to read some.”

Pushing aside his surprise, Richard leaned back, not wanting to overwhelm the boy, but he placed a hand gently on his right shoulder and looked him in the eyes seriously. “It was our pleasure, yeah?”

“No problem at all,” Mary added.

Petya sniffed, eyes a little watery, and smiled brightly. Richard felt like he could climb a mountain with just the encouragement of that smile.

“Do you want to go check out the park?” Richard asked lightly. “There’s not much left in the house, and the park’s a lot of fun, even if it is starting to rain.”

“Richard doesn’t like the rain because he thinks he’s old,” Mary whispered to Petya as if Richard wasn’t able to hear, and he giggled at Richard’s indignant squawk.

“I’ve never felt rain before,” Petya said innocently, and Mary gasped exaggeratedly, hiding her sadness at the admission like a pro.

“Well, we must go now!” she exclaimed. “Damn Richard’s old person knees anyway, right?”

Richard sputtered. “I’ve never said anything about my knees!” he said, ignoring every time he’d complained about them to himself. He was sure he’d never said it aloud.

Mary snorted. “Oh really?” she said with the utmost sarcasm. “And what was it you were moaning last week? Something about how the cold hurt your knees too much...” she trailed off.

Richard took a moment to remember what she was talking about but blushed furiously when he did. “Mary!” he exclaimed, mortified. “You can’t talk about stuff like that around kids!”

“What?” she said incorrigibly, her eyes laughing at him. “I was just talking about how were complaining about the cold and your knees, right Petya? Very old man for someone going on 26.”

“Oh god,” Richard muttered in English, head in his hands. “How you’re able to translate your innuendos and sarcasm into Russian so seamlessly will forever be a mystery to me.”

“It’s called skill, darling,” she replied in English before switching back to Russian and addressing Petya. “Ready to defy the rain?” she said eagerly, and she and Petya left for the front of the house, Richard trailing behind, eternally embarrassed.

\----

_Age seven, five years since meeting foster parents_

\----

An incredulous grin slowly spread across Richard’s face. Mary just stared at the case-worker in disbelief.

“What?” she said, voice cracking.

“Oh my god, I knew it!” Richard exclaimed, throwing his hands up.

“ _What?_ ” Mary said again.

Ellie smiled, slightly bemused. “The court decided to make Petya eligible for adoption.”

Richard laughed, running a hand through his hair, and Mary sat abruptly in the seat behind her.

“Mom?” Petya said waveringly, and Richard was brought a little more down to earth. Mary was still sitting, hand brushing gently against Petya’s cheek as if he were entirely new to her, eyes filling with tears but sparkling with growing happiness and relief. Abruptly, she sobbed and pulled Petya into a hug.

Petya hesitated only a moment before hugging her in return. “Mom? Is something wrong?”

Mary laughed through her tears, making Richard smile, eyes sparkling. He understood. This was it. They didn’t have to worry anymore! It was like when Petya was declared a legal refugee—with deportion no longer a threat and citizenship all but certain—all over again.

For years, since not long after they’d begun to foster the kid, they’d grown more and more worried that Petya would be taken from them. They’d heard every horror story of the system. And if Petya’s parents had ever been found, they’d have had the power to take him away forever.

They wanted Petya to be reunited with them, of course. They couldn’t imagine how hard it would be to lose their child, and Petya didn’t deserve the pain of losing his birth parents like that. But... Petya had become their family. He was their _son_ , even if he hadn’t been originally. They raised him since he was three, taught him how to read, write and speak fluent English. They showed him their work and their love of science. They celebrated birthdays and holidays and introduced him to their family, small though it was. Richard’s brother Ben and his wife May had become Uncle and Aunt to Petya, and Richard and Mary… Richard and Mary had become Dad and Mom.

So though no one had ever come close to learning almost anything about Petya’s birth parents, let alone finding them, this fear of losing their child still held them in its grasp.

They tried to hide it from Petya. Though Petya came to see them as his parents just as they came to see him as their child, he still asked about his birth parents and worried about them. His own experiences pointed to them suffering. He was still working every day to unlearn all that his captors had intentionally and unintentionally taught him. Some days, he would remember that he was able to go to sleep or sit down whenever he wanted, and other days, Mary or Richard would find him standing next to his bed, almost asleep on his feet, because he hadn’t been told he could lay on his bed yet. Adding the pain of wondering if his birth parents had abandoned or forgotten him or if they were being tortured somewhere...it was too much, and Richard and Mary wished they could take it all away from Petya. They couldn’t on top of all that tell him there was a possibility, if his parents were found, that he’d never see Richard and Mary again. They couldn’t.

But now, after five of the most uncertain and terrifying and wonderful years of Richard and Mary’s lives, the foster system had declared Petya eligible for adoption. Despite how, because Petya was a part of the URM program, adoption was extremely complicated and rare. Despite how difficult it was to prove, especially in Petya’s case, that his parents were either dead, unwilling, or unable to properly care for him.

“Oh, darling,” Mary murmured, brushing back Petya’s hair and kissing his forehead. “Nothing’s wrong. Nothing at all. I’m just so happy.”

Petya smiled uncertainly, and Mary hugged him again tightly.

Richard ran a hand through his hair, face lax with astonishment. “What made the courts change their mind?” he asked Ellie.

The caseworker smiled. “Simply put, they decided it was more in Petya’s interests, since he was so very young when he was forced to migrate here, to provide the continuity and permanency of adoption.”

“So...” Petya started hesitantly. Everyone turned to look at him. “So no one will take me away again?”

Richard’s eyes widened. “You knew about that?” He said, crouching next to him.

Petya shrugged and looked at his feet sheepishly. “I guessed, kinda.”

Mary sighed and rubbed his back comfortingly. “No, no one will be able to take you away. We won’t let them,” she said with reassuring tenacity.

“So if my parents, the first ones, are found...”

“They’ll be very welcome, but they won’t be able to take you away. They’ll just have to share you with us.”

Petya relaxed and smiled widely, eyes watery. “Thanks,” he said, hugging Mary.

“Of course, Petya,” Mary said, and Richard nodded, placing a hand on Petya’s shoulder. “We love you very much, ok?”

Petya smiled and held her tighter. “You too, Momma.”

\----

_Age eight, one year since adoption_

\----

Richard reached the front step and paused to rub his forehead wearily before entering.

“Richard?” Mary called from the living room, and Richard peaked around the doorway, removing his shoes. She was on the couch, perched on her elbows.

“Hey,” Richard said, trying to be discreet about how tired he was. Mary shot him a confused look, sitting up fully, but Petya rushed forward and distracted them both.

“Dad!” Petya exclaimed, practically jumping with hyperactive excitement.

Richard cracked a smile, bending down to be at his level. “Petya! What’s got you so excited?”

“Ms. Riley liked Spots!” Petya said, referring to the tiny robot he had built with a little assistance from Mary and Richard. It was his eighth robot, but the first that moved automatically towards light. “She said it was _super cool_!” Petya continued giddily, saying the last two words in English.

Richard laughed and ruffled Petya’s hair. “I told you she would, little robot-maker!”

Petya grinned widely. “She said she wants to see my next robot, when I finish! And maybe I’ll be able to go to the robotics club, even though it’s for older kids!”

“That’s awesome, Petya,” Richard said sincerely. “Good job.”

“Hey, buddy, why don’t you go work on it now, yeah?” Mary said, putting a hand on Petya’s shoulder. She must have approached while they were talking. “Dad and I need to start your celebration dinner.” She smiled for Petya, and the boy nodded, already skipping down the hall to his room.

“See you later!” Petya called. Richard smiled fondly and returned the phrase, pushing himself to his feet. The door closed a moment later.

“He’s been bouncing about like—like a manic balloon or something ever since he got back,” Mary said in amusement, switching to English. When Petya was young, they had done so to keep their personal conversations more private, and though the practice was useless now, the habit had remained. “It’s been all I could do to keep him off the furniture.”

“It must have been a sight,” Richard said, not bothering to hide his amusement. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen a manic balloon.”

Mary rolled her eyes and moved into the kitchen. “You haven’t lived,” she said dryly.

“I guess not,” Richard said, snickering. He followed Mary’s lead and began to gather ingredients for the recipe she’d set on the counter. “You’ll have to show me one sometime. Could be my lightning bolt moment.”

“Because there’s obviously a connection between manic balloons and cancer,” Mary said, turning away to start boiling water for the pasta.

“Well, you never know,” Richard replied.

Casually, still turned away, Mary asked The Question, and Richard knew where she was leading. “How’s the research been going anyway?”

Richard sighed. He might as well cut to the important stuff. “There’s actually something I needed to tell you about that.”

Mary turned, mildly alarmed. “They haven’t changed their minds, have they?”

“No! No, everyone’s been very understanding. One of the other cross-species geneticists actually told me she was thinking of switching to something more cancer-focused too,” Richard said, scratching the back of his head.

“Good,” Mary said firmly. “You had every right to switch tracks. You didn’t sign up for that Captain-America-replicator shit.”

“I know, Mary,” Richard said tiredly. He just wished Osborn hadn’t started changing the goals of the cross-species genetics division. The science had such potential as a cure, but the changes had made Richard too uneasy to continue.

“And I think it was good of you to take the last of your breakthroughs with you,” Mary continued stubbornly. “Osborn was being shady as hell.”

“Mary,” Richard said more exasperatedly. “I _know_.”

She put her hands up defensively. “Alright, alright. Just reminding you. You’re such a worrier sometimes.”

“Well, they’re taking it perfectly fine,” Richard said. “They actually invited me to go to Spain, to confer with a few of our researchers there. Apparently, they found something promising.”

Mary’s brow creased. “Spain?”

“Yeah.” Richard rubbed arm nervously, eyes down. “They, uh, want me to go for the weekend. I think it would be a good idea, to help smooth things over after my…transfer. And you can come too, if you want. They’ll pay for everything.”

“You want me to come?”

“I’d really like your help.”

Mary twisted the ring on her finger back and forth. “I suppose Petya can stay with May and Ben while we’re gone,” she said slowly, obviously thrown off by the offer. “This doesn’t seem…off to you?”

Richard shrugged. “I think it’s a peace offering. Something to test that I’m still loyal to the company, despite what happened.”

“That makes sense,” Mary said, relaxing slightly. “And I’ve always wanted to go to Spain.”

“Right!” Richard said, pointing the spoon in his hand at her in agreement. “It’ll only be a few days, we’ll get to see Spain, Petya will get to hang out with his Aunt and Uncle—you know how he loves them…”

“Let’s do it,” Mary said, nodding her head. Her voice was strong and determined.

“We’ll tell Petya after dinner,” Richard said, smiling.

\----

_“We’ll be back on Sunday, sweetheart.”_

_“Promise?”_

_“Promise. Have lots of fun with your Aunt and Uncle, alright?”_

_“Show them Spots; they’ll love that.”_

_“‘Kay. I love you.”_

_“Love you too.”_

\----

“...Petya?”

The boy curled up tighter, pulled the bed’s blanket over his head, and didn’t respond. It was Sunday, just like it had been last week and the week before that on _the_ Sunday.

The door was quietly opened, and Petya heard the soft rustling of clothes being pushed across the carpet.

“Petya?” the voice, his Aunt May, whispered again. She said it the English way since she didn’t know Russian, still correct... but not the same. “Dinner’s ready,” May said. “Do you—do you want to come eat with us?”

Petya shook his head, but the covers above him hid most of the response. With careful movements, May knelt by his bed and peeled back the covers to reveal his face. Petya opened his eyes as she placed a warm hand on his back. She conveyed a deep, painful sorrow. “You haven’t eaten yet today,” she said, more softly than before.

Petya watched unresponsively as she waited for him to speak. She looked helplessly back at Uncle Ben in the doorway, and he came and hesitantly knelt beside her.

“May made minestrone,” he tried hopefully. “She didn’t even burn it, since it’s that recipe she stole from Olive Garden.”

Usually, this would earn a smile from Petya and a playful slap from Aunt May, but it would also usually encourage a laugh from Petya’s Dad and a teasing comment from his Mom that May would refute ridiculously.

Instead, Petya sniffed and buried deeper into his pillow.

May sighed and put her forehead against Petya’s. “Oh, sweetie. I’m so sorry.”

They sat in silence for some time, resting and listening to the sounds of the apartment and each other’s breathing.

Petya sniffled and pulled his arms tighter. “I m-miss them,” he said tearfully.

“We know, Petya,” Ben said sadly. “We miss them too.”

Petya nodded and kept the silence again.

“How ‘bout we set up on the couch instead of in the kitchen,” May switched tracks gently. “Wrap up in blankets.”

“Cups and straws?” Ben pitched, and May huffed a mini laugh, making Petya’s lips curl into a half-smile.

“I guess I’m a little hungry.”

\----

_Age eleven, three years since the plane crash_

\----

“Um, Aunt May? Uncle Ben?”

The couple looked over from the couch where they had been conversing. Petya stood in the doorway, obviously nervous but trying to play it off.

“What’s up, Big Guy?” May said, motioning him over encouragingly. Petya walked up and stood in front of them, his right hand playing with the edge of his shirt.

Petya rocked back on his heels. “Um…”

Ben sat forward, elbows on his knees. “Are you nervous about tomorrow?” he asked. “You don’t need to worry; you’ll be great.”

“Well, uh—“

“Oh yeah,” May said, brightening. “You’re a smart kid, Petya. You’ll beat out all those other middle-schoolers in a second.” She snapped her fingers for emphasis.

“Aunt May,” Petya said, more embarrassed than nervous now, squirming adorably. At least May thought so.

“Not that Petya isn’t clumsy,” Ben said, his eyes beginning to sparkle. Petya knew the conniving look well. “It’s that puberty kicking in.”

Petya groaned, covering his face with his hands in mortification. “ _Uncle Ben!_ ”

“They grow up so fast,” May said, sniffing and wiping away fake tears.

“ _Guys_ , I’m being serious!” Petya whined.

“So are we,” Ben said more earnestly, patting Petya’s shoulder. “Tomorrow’ll be a breeze.”

“I know,” Petya said, ducking his head nervously as he remembered his purpose in coming to talk with them. “I—this is something else. Kinda. Mostly.”

They nodded supportingly, and May motioned for him to continue (“Yeah?”) when he paused too long.

Petya swallowed. “Well, you see—you know, um, how my name is kinda a little… hard to pronounce for most people?”

“Did someone make fun of your name again?” Ben said slowly, sharing a look with May.

“No! No, I just—well I thought, since I’m going to a new school, this might be a good time to start going b-by Peter.” His voice squeaked at the end.

Their brows scrunched up, and Petya rushed on anxiously at breakneck speed.

“It’d be easier, you know? A-and the teachers wouldn’t be confused, and Petya and Peter are basically the same thing anyway so it wouldn’t even matter—“

“Wait, Petya,” May said, putting a hand up. Her eyes were crinkled with concern. “You shouldn’t feel like you need to change your name to sound more English. It’s your _name_ , everyone else can piss off, ok?”

“I-I know, I know, just…” Petya trailed off, running a hand through his hair. “Peter pretty much _is_ my name, just as much as Petya or Pyotr. And anyway… I’m really tired of having to explain it to everyone.” His shoulders slumped. “That probably sounds lame.”

“I think I understand, Petya,” Ben said sympathetically, and Petya smiled at him.

“Ben!” May exclaimed. “Listen, Petya, this is your _heritage_. I can’t just stand by as you toss that aside because of a bunch of asshats—“

“I’ve thought about it a lot,” Petya said hurriedly. “I’m not, like, trying to _hide_ or something. This will just be easier. Lots of people do it.”

“Just because—“

“May,” Ben cut in.

May deflated. “Alright, alright. You aren’t doing this because of bullies?” she asked Petya.

He shook his head eagerly, eyes wide with anticipation.

May waffled a second then sighed. “Ok. I’ll let you do it.”

Petya grinned, opening his mouth to launch into relieved thank-you’s, but Aunt May stopped the barrage with a finger.

“ _But_ ,” she said, “I reserve the right, both as an Italian American _and_ your Aunt, to call you Petya whenever I want, no complaints.”

“Of course! Thanks, Aunt May!” Petya exclaimed, launching forward to hug her and Ben.

Ben laughed, and May rolled her eyes fondly.

\----

Petya looked nervously around and sat down at an empty desk near the center of his first Middle School classroom. He immediately began to bounce his leg.

“Hey, is that the Millennium Falcon?”

Petya’s head whipped to the boy on his left, who was pointing at a pin on Petya’s backpack. “Huh? Oh! Yeah, I, uh, got it for my birthday last year.”

“ _Awesome_ ,” the boy said, drawing the word out. “I have Yoda,” he continued, presenting his own backpack.

“Cool!” Petya said, leaning in to look at it. “Yoda’s, like, the best character!”

“I know, right?”

They both grinned at each other.

“I’m Ned by the way,” the boy said, holding his hand out maturely.

Petya hesitated only a second ( _”Pet-ya?” “No, it’s, um, Russian, you have to say it like this…”_ ) before reaching out and shaking Ned’s hand with a grin.

“Peter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry but kinda not sorry for building up Richard and Mary’s characters and then killing them. I grew kinda attached.


	4. To search

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We go back to Natasha and learn what she's been up to...  
> Plus a brief look at 12-year-old Peter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my completely wonderful beta reader, AgentMorganB-006 on ff.net! This chapter wouldn't be anything like it is now without her :). Definitely go check out her story if you enjoy Peter Parker angst!

“ _Barton speaking._ ”

“ _Clint, we really need your help._ ”

“ _What’s the situation?_ ”

“ _The Black Widow’s following us._ ”

\----

“ _I just don’t know,_ ” a male voice rambled over the phone in Portuguese. “ _What if he leaves early? I_ need _Marques dead._ ”

Natasha rolled her eyes and pulled on boots, her eyes still on the computer where she had a view into the small Hungarian bank that fronted one of the Red Room’s largest undercover bases. The light of the laptop screen was the only way she could see her surroundings, the windows having been blocked with heavy curtains and the electric lights shut off. 

Someone had bugged her room. Their camera was more discreet than most but not nearly enough to fool her. 

Natasha shifted the phone placed between her ear and her shoulder and spoke through the line. “If you don’t trust my ability, you shouldn’t have hired me.”

“ _No! No, no, no, I trust you to do this. Your skillset is legendary. I just need to be absolutely certain! That’s all. I need to be kept in the loop._ ”

 _Idiot._

“Everything is going well,” she said, careful to not incriminate herself with a bug in the room. “In two days, even your political advisors won’t be worrying about him. But you _must_ wait for the event,” she added pointedly. She checked one last time that she was ready and that the computer display showed no change in the bank.

“ _Okay. Okay, sounds good._ ”

“This job is my top priority,” she lied effortlessly, powering off the computer. 

“Fantástico,” he said, obviously relieved. “ _Thank you for your diligence._ ”

“Of course,” she said. “Now, I have something important to do. Have a good day.”

“ _Oh, uh, yes, you t—_ “

Natasha hung up and grabbed her purse—the perfect size to hide a gun and appear normal. 

Heading onto the street, she ran over the plan once more. She’d arrive at the “bank”, get into the back rooms, and search for organizational ties to the Red Room. With any luck, she’d find information on what had happened to Petya and why the training facility had exploded all without her disguise being compromised. If not…she wasn’t against getting her hands dirty.

If her client hadn’t so generously and naively gifted her with a sponsorship, she couldn’t have gotten here nearly as quickly. The stupidity of the general masses was something she found herself continually thankful for. 

Natasha strode confidently toward the undercover base. It was only a few blocks away from her stakeout, so walking was simplest. Besides, the little spy following her was easier to spot unhindered by a vehicle. He was on the roof across the street, barely visible over the peak of the tiling, expertly scaling the building and sliding down the back out of her sight as the block ended. Natasha paused at the intersection and watched through brief glimpses in the mirrored surfaces of the passing cars as he popped out of the store at the corner, looking for all the world as if he’d never been on its roof five floors higher only a minute before. 

Smirking, Natasha crossed the road under the highway overpass. If the spy continued to follow her, she’d run into him going this way. The bank was on the left, across the street and right along his path. 

When she crossed, they were walking side by side. She could tell he’d tensed, but he covered it up admirably. 

There was nowhere to go, no hidden alley or room where she could pull him in and threaten him in secret. She would have to confront him here. 

“Who are you?” she said casually in English, as if they’d already been in conversation. 

He faltered a step and tried to give her a questioning look. “ _Sorry_?” he said in Hungarian.

“Don’t even bother,” she scoffed. “You are obviously American.”

He considered her cautiously a moment and switched tactics, shrugging minutely. “What are you doing here, _Ms. Widow_?” he said in English, smirking at the honorific..”

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “Which agency are you with?”

He snorted, continuing as if she hadn’t asked a question. They both slowed to a stop. “Your target isn’t here,” he said lightly, inviting her to comment.

Natasha was mildly impressed. “You’re obviously not with the CIA,” Natasha said appraisingly, tilting her head. She was beginning to enjoy this. “SHIELD, right?” she announced slowly.

He blinked once, and she knew. 

Smirking, Natasha stepped around him and continued walking. SHIELD was easy to deal with. “Let Director Fury know I admire his work. I’m sure your government loves knowing what really happened April 20th two years ago.”

She was halfway down the street before he caught up with her. “Wait a second,” he said indignantly. “You can’t just blackmail me and walk away.”

“Of course not,” she said innocently, turning the corner. There it was: the Red Room’s base. 

She shot the SHIELD agent a calculating look. He was huffing and scowling now, but he’d been a decent enough actor before. Enough to fool most. Perhaps she could use him as a distraction. He certainly didn’t seem ready to confront her openly.

Decision made, she entered the building.

“What are you doing?” the agent asked, catching the front door before it closed and following after her. He was behaving discreetly again now that they were inside. The room was large and rich, marble and quartz used lavishly but tastefully in the architecture of the room. The typical opulence of any genuine, well-off bank. A man stood behind the large information desk that sat at the back of the entrance, but Natasha only nodded and passed him confidently. He didn’t question her presence. There were, after all, some who truly used this as a bank. The Red Room’s façades were always as real as possible. 

“Withdrawing a check,” she finally answered the agent, bypassing the accounting desks and slipping down a side hall. 

“Right,” the agent said slowly, glancing back at the main room. Natasha pulled from her bag a key—which she’d replicated yesterday from the manager’s key ring—and unlocked the door to the offices smoothly. She looked for all the world as though she were meant to be there.

She pushed through and gestured for the agent to follow. “If you’re going to keep following, come quickly.”

He stepped inside hesitantly, and she shut the door behind him. The hall ahead of them was wood and concrete, guests no longer likely to enter so the necessity to impress now irrelevant. Still, it looked like any other business. It was well lit with offices branching off from the hall on both sides. Names were engraved on door planks.

She immediately approached a door. It belonged to a regular employee in the bank, someone who had little importance but enough to seem normal and hard working. If she hadn’t recognized him from other Red Room files, she might not have suspected him. 

She just had to hope he was important enough within the Red Room to have access to this branch’s information database. It was supposed to be one of the most extensive in the organization.

She had to hope she’d find a lead on Petya.

Steeling herself, she entered the office, immediately closing the door behind her and the agent. A computer sat innocuously on the desk, and she bypassed its login easily and began her search, fingers flying over the keyboard. 

“Listen,” the agent said slowly, peering over her shoulder and leaning against the desk beside her. Natasha barely spared him an iota of her attention, her shoulders tense with anticipation. “This obviously has nothing to do with Marques,” the agent said. “ And I know that’s your official reason for being in Budapest. What’s going on?”

Natasha found a string of heavily encoded files. This might be it. 

“I’m curious,” the agent said. “That’s the only reason I haven’t taken you down. And I appreciate your nerve. If you clue me in on what you’re up to and it’s good, I might be able to help.”

As Natasha slowly made her way through the slew of codes, her path became clearer and clearer. But just as she reached the end, the screen went black. 

Natasha froze, and the agent leaned closer. 

A single, white cursor slowly blinked at the center of the screen. 

“What—“ the agent started, but Natasha waved a hand at him, shushing. 

The Red Room had many strengths, but one of its weaknesses was its pride. Vasilisa, the director of the organization, the highest level of clearance, had never changed her username and password in the time that Natasha had known her. And she’d never suspected that her trainee had learned and memorized it, even after all the training and all the betrayal. Natasha was too inferior. 

Now Vasilisa was dead, immortalized by her followers. Who would dare to remove her from the system? 

Anticipation rushed like lightning through her body, a surge of hope and fear. Her hands rested on the keyboard again, carefully typing in the means to finally finding answers.

_1376o2900_

_Mn5-vA2-le5_

She checked it once, twice, three times. Everything checked out. 

_Enter_

Slowly, it loaded. The screen gradually became grey, then color and words filled the screen, forming the structure of the Red Room’s program. It was a mess of coding, created to confuse outsiders but incredibly familiar to Natasha. 

She was in. 

Immediately, she set to work, knowing exactly where to go. Files popped onto the screen, Natasha searched them, and they were gone again, flashes of light on the screen soon replaced by others. Words, pictures, videos, even graphs went before Natasha. With each one, she glanced and moved on, waiting for a sign. 

There. A date. _The_ date. 

Petya. 

Someone, the agent, was speaking, but Natasha’s attention was completely consumed by the document. It was so simple, so small. A tiny document outlining an incident at a training facility.

An explosion. No survivors.

Natasha scanned it again and again but there was nothing. Speculation she’d already tried and failed to verify or refute. 

Nothing. 

The door knob rattled and twisted. 

“Stop what you’re—” someone started as they entered, gun raised, but Natasha pulled her weapon in an instant. 

“Freeze.”

The woman paused, and they both stood, gun to gun, utterly still. The woman’s eyes flicked to the agent, who’s hand was frozen at his belt, ready to grab an unknown weapon at any moment. 

“You should know I’m an American agent,” he said slowly, announcing himself. Natasha thought it was idiotic, but she knew it was only to be expected. He didn’t know the situation, and if this woman were truly a guard of the bank, he’d be making the right call.

The woman’s brow creased, and she nodded tentatively. “Thank you...” she trailed off, eyes flicking to the computer monitor briefly. Her eyes hardened ever-so-slightly, and Natasha tensed.

“How—“

Natasha cut her off with a bullet to the head, scowling. Shaking her head and ignoring the splatter of blood, she closed down the computer, clearing her traces. 

The agent—who had drawn his weapon the moment the gun fired—kept it pointed at Natasha steadily, face flat. Natasha only faced him, remaining where she was confidently. “Why did you kill the guard?” he said.

“She isn’t who you think she is,” Natasha spat, but she could see his suspicion still. His gun didn’t move away.

A door slammed outside the room. People—obviously armed and ready to kill from the sound of the guns and the shouting—rushed down the hallway, quickly approaching the office. Cursing, Natasha weaved around the agent and raised her gun, shooting the moment they began to appear.

“Get down, get down!” guards shouted in Hungarian. 

“Wait!” her companion shouted in the same language, ducking behind a desk. 

“It’s the Black Widow!”

“No, wait!”

Natasha ignored both sides. Bullet after bullet hit person after person, all screaming and groaning and calling for reinforcements. She kicked down someone who’d come too close and threw a stapler from the desk into the face of another. 

Finally, the last guard groaned and fell to the floor. 

Natasha shot them in the head just to be sure. 

“Dammit,” Clint murmured, gripping his gun tightly and staring at the bodies but not drawing it against her again. 

Natasha checked her gun. “You’re their enemy just as much as I am. If you want to live, you need to fight back.”

He didn’t answer, but he followed her lead on the way out all the same.

\----

“Holy shit balls,” the agent groaned. He slumped on the couch of the safe room, nursing a cut on his cheek. “I’m _so dead_.” 

Natasha snorted, checking through the windows for any sign that they hadn’t lost their attackers.

“What the hell was that place?” the agent said, still a little suspicious of her though much less given how relaxed he seemed.

“An undercover branch of an organization that trains children to become spies for the KGB,” she said neutrally. 

He frowned. “Never heard of it.”

“You wouldn’t have,” she said, still looking out the window. She was stalling and she knew it, trying not to think about how she needed to kill him. 

“Huh,” he said contemplatively. Sniffing, he continued. “What’s your name, anyway? Don’t think I ever got it.”

Fingering the hold of her handgun, she turned and eyed him. “Why?”

“Well, I can’t keep calling you Ms. Widow,” he said. 

Cheeky. 

He held out a hand. “My name’s Clint.”

Holstering her gun, Natasha slowly walked over and shook his hand once. “Anna,” she lied. 

“Anna then,” he said, nodding. “Nice to meet you. Sort of.”

“Likewise,” Natasha said, lip quirking.

He shrugged and stood, groaning and stretching as he did. Natasha’s hand tensed near her gun. 

“That organization,” he said casually. “Do the kids choose to join it?”

Natasha’s face darkened. “No,” she said sharply. 

He looked her straight in the eyes, searching. Natasha straightened defiantly. Finally, he smiled. 

“I like you,” he said and turned away. “See you at the party.”

Natasha frowned. “You’re leaving.”

“I’m giving you a choice,” he said, glancing over his shoulder from the door. “You can shoot Marques and set me against you permanently. Or,” he grinned and opened the door, “you can work with me to help more people. Like those kids.”

He saluted and walked out.

Natasha let him.

\----

Two days were not nearly enough time to consider Clint’s offer, and by the end of it, Natasha hated her uncertainty. 

She didn’t trust SHIELD. At all. She didn’t trust anyone. But she also hated the sinking, tightening pain she’d feel whenever a job she undertook cost children’s lives—the innocents of the world. 

Those jobs had been the only way she could quickly and easily continue her search for Petya, so she’d pushed through. But what Clint had claimed…had implied…

She peered through the high banisters, trying to focus on the task at hand. 

The room was full, lounge music intersecting with the sound of a hundred people. Low lights shadowed everyone in purple and blue, and the atmosphere was heavy and slow, an odd but fitting tone for the political people a part of it. Still, the lighting made familiar faces more difficult to spot. 

At last, she singled out Marques. A glass of champagne in hand, he was chatting away with two others, sponsors if his enthusiasm and smile were anything to go by. Behind him to his left stood Clint, seemingly minding his own business, talking off and on with his own group. He was positioned in exactly the right way to keep Marques in the corner of his vision. 

Natasha breathed in slowly and aimed her weapon—a sniper gun without the idiotic red light such firearms had in the movies. In its sights, she focused on Marques, exhaling, finger on the trigger. 

It was the perfect moment. The music and lights would cover her shot, the crowd was distracted, Clint was too far away to stop her. Her sponsor would be able to go through with his plan to use Marques death to forward his political campaign, and she would be paid, enabling her to head for the next rumored Red Room undercover branch.

Still.

Her eyes flicked magnetically from Clint to Marques to Clint again and again. The trigger of the gun shifted back and forth. She remained indecisive. 

She sighed and pulled back. She didn’t want to kill Marques. There was no real reason to, she knew. Not with this Clint’s offer on the table. Even if she couldn’t trust him. 

She couldn’t—she couldn’t sacrifice the world—other people’s children—for Petya, no matter how much she needed to find him. She couldn’t continue like this. There had to be another way.

Dismantling the gun deftly, she tucked the pieces into a compact bag and slipped it behind a cabinet. It would be easy to retrieve later, if she wanted to. 

She made her way downstairs, and hesitating one last time, she stepped into the crowd. Clint spotted her walked to meet her part way across the room, crossing his arms with a smug smile as he stopped. 

Natasha mirrored him without the smile.

“I’ll get time off?” she said as if the question was meaningless, only a way to let him know she was interested in his offer, and not her last attempt to check if this was a good idea before jumping in. If she wouldn’t have time to search for Petya still, she’d finish her job here and leave. 

Clint smirked. “We’re not _monsters_ ,” he said, but he dropped the smugness. “I’m glad you’re joining the team, Anna.”

She paused. “Natasha,” she said, giving her nickname with a slight shrug. It was more American than Natalia anyway. “Not Anna.”

He shook her hand. “I never liked the name Anna anyway.”

They smiled slightly, both slightly relieved though for different reasons, and mutually decided to walk out. 

“You know…” the agent began, and Natasha just knew he was going to say something stupid. “Clint was just an alias for me too. My real name’s Bartholomew. Barth for short.”

“No, it’s not.”

“...You’re right, but wouldn’t it be funny?” he said, smirking.

“No.”

“Wow, not even a smile. Do you not laugh or something? Was there some secret assassin meeting about this that I missed?”

Natasha only rolled her eyes and wondered just what she’d gotten herself into.

“I’m going to make it my mission to teach you the art of humor,” Clint continued with finality. “You’ve obviously never met someone with a sense of comedy.”

\----

They stared at a dead body floating in the water. Their second mission had taken an unexpected turn.

“Knock knock.” 

.

.

.

Clint rolled his eyes and answered himself in a gravely, pointed voice. “ _Who’s there?_ ”

“Owl,” he said normally.

“ _Owl what?_ ”

“Owl be darned! A body!”

He cackled to himself. “Get it, ha, _owl_ , oh man, that was awesome, wasn’t that awesome? It was so awesome.”

\----

“Hey. _Hey._ Hey, _Natasha_. “

“ _What_?”

“Why did the chicken cross the road?”

“Seriously?”

“Please?”

“I don’t know,” she said sardonically, “why _did_ the chicken cross the road?”

“To get to the other side!”

There was a scream as Clint’s arrow hit its target. 

Silence. 

“Really? Not even a tiny smile?”

A sigh. Footsteps.

“Hey, Nat. Why did the dolphin cross—ow!”

\----

Natasha and Clint surveyed the scene. They needed to get through the door discreetly, but the guards watching it were too protected by their concrete box to be shot down from the outside.

“We should try and get them all out,” Clint said quietly. 

“I agree,” Natasha said. “It’d need to be a distraction, something big enough for them to come out but not so big that they would call for reinforcements or set off the alarm.”

Clint nodded thoughtfully. Suddenly, he began to grin. 

“Maybe I could seduce them out of there?” he said devilishly. 

Natasha turned and stared at him. “How would you do that?” she said incredulously. 

“Listen to this,” he said, and he ducked his head. 

He looked back up slowly, his face smoldering and suggestive. “Are you from Tennessee?” He began to snicker. “Cause you’re the only _ten I see_. Ha!” He bent over cackling and trying to cover it. “Oh man, your face!”

Natasha let him laugh. “You know this just might work,” she deadpanned. 

This threw him off. “Well, I mean, it _was_ genius. If I do say so myself,” he added with another snicker.

Natasha continued as if he’d never spoken. “It’s just stupid enough to distract them.”

“ _And_ funny,” he said, back in good humor, completely pleased with himself. “I’m _hilarious_.”

“Sure.”

\----

“God,” Clint said. He was sitting on a box near the pier, waiting along with Natasha for SHIELD to come with transport. The group of boys and girls they’d rescued from traffickers in an abandoned factory just off the water huddled a few feet away, talking quietly among themselves. Clint usually have been among them, whispering and comforting, but he’d fallen into a vat during the fight and was still _dripping_ in some sort of glue-water-like substance.

“I hate this,” Clint whined again, trying to shake more of the substance off, but it stayed obstinately. “What even _is_ this stuff?”

Natasha shrugged, ‘coughing’ into her arm. 

“Why’s it always me?” Clint said pathetically. He pulled at his shirt, but even it, too, refused to move. 

“I guess that’s what you get for jumping into a sticky situation without me,” Natasha said casually. 

Clint froze, and the shirt was dropped from his grip. “Did you just make a _pun_?!” he exclaimed. 

“What pun?” Natasha said, but a small smirk snuck onto her face. 

“Wow,” he said, utterly dumbfounded and grinning like an idiot. “ _Wow_. I’m honored. Truly. Thank you for letting be a part of this moment. _Sticky situation_. You even smiled? This is the best day of my life. Does this mean I won the bet? I knew I’d get you to smile, and no one believed me."

Natasha snorted. “You look like a drowned rat.”

Clint fake sniffed, pretending to be weepy. “ _I’m so proud._ ”

\----

“So, we’re going our separate ways again,” Clint said. 

“We are,” Natasha said. 

“It’s like Nick doesn’t trust us to work together anymore.”

“Maybe that prank of yours that I was in no way a part of has to do with it.”

“The sparkles in his coffee might have been a bit much.”

Natasha hummed, smirking. “At least I’m going somewhere warm. Have fun in Alaska.” She walked away. 

“You’re evil!” Clint called after her. “You know I hate snow!” 

“So does Fury!” Natasha called back. 

She heard Clint curse.

\----

The assignment had gone quickly and easily. Now, reaching the tail end of it, she drove through Ukraine on the way to Ștefan Vodă, Moldova. The countryside was a blur of yellow, brown, and dull green in her peripheral vision. The seat was uncomfortable after so many hours of being held and the leather of the steering wheel warm under her hands. Propped up against the radio, a crisp map was spread out, their route highlighted so she could easily reference it if necessary. The paper trembled delicately under the rumble of the engine, both movements creating some of the few sounds detectable to Natasha. Otherwise, there was only the harsh wind outside and the soft notes of music drifting out from the radio behind the map. 

Well... That and the restless twitching and squirming of the nuclear scientist she was escorting home from Iran.

He shifted again, and Natasha tried not to roll her eyes. The man had no social skills whatsoever. With the last of his research—which had been haphazardly thrown in a bag during the initial escape from Iran—sorted and tucked safely away, his awkwardness permeated the space between them. It was as though his very breath hung on the air uncertainly. 

He cleared his throat, glancing her way but quickly looking back at the road. "How, uh, how far out are we?" he asked in Romanian, which he, like most in his country, called Moldovan.

Natasha remained impassive, but she wanted to laugh. Clint would have. "Less than two hours," she said instead. "We just passed Odessa."

The scientist brightened. "Oh, good! I can't wait to see my family again."

Natasha didn't respond, but an old, familiar pain gripped her heart.

"I have two daughters, you know,” he rambled obliviously.”Six and nine. My wife and I always say they’re the most energetic kids we’ve ever known..."

Natasha tuned him out. She didn't want to hear this, not now, not when she'd given up ever having her family back after nearly six years of searching and hoping for _any_ sign that her son could possibly be alive and finding nothing. It was too raw.

"—you?"

Natasha shook out of her thoughts. "What?" she snapped.

The scientist was startled. "Um, I-I-I asked if you have a family? Had? I'm sorry, I—"

"No," Natasha interrupted sharply. "I don't."

"I'm sorry," he said, cringing. He looked horrified.

Sighing, Natasha mentally kicked herself. She needed him to relax again. "I didn't mean to snap," she said neutrally.

The scientist looked at her cautiously. "I understand,” he said tentatively. “I shouldn't have asked."

Natasha nodded and refocused on driving. Only five minutes passed before he started to drum his fingers on the side door.

"Why don't you tell me about your work," she said suddenly.

The scientist jumped. "Oh! Um, sure. I was, uh, researching, in Iran that is…"

Natasha listened with half an ear as he rambled about his findings and his method of discovering them. The information, like everything, had the potential to be useful later. For now, though, it was useless, so she only tucked it in the back of her mind.

Light flashed in her peripheral, and her eyes darted to it, instincts screaming danger. Nothing but yellowed grass and a few scattered trees and shrubs grew beside the road: places that would be difficult to hide in without her notice. But where—

There. Another flash. This time she pinpointed it to a shrub on the right, fifty meters from the road. Natasha's heartbeat rushed in her chest.

"Get down," She commanded without hesitation, pushing the scientist’s head between his knees roughly so he was out of view.

"What—"

There was a flash, a bang, and the front right tire blew. Metal screeched deafeningly on concrete, and the car spun wildly. The scientist's yelling was drowned out in the chaos.

Natasha wrestled the wheel back under control and slammed on the breaks. They skidded off the road, dirt went flying. A huge, black cloud of smoke billowed around them, an ominous, cloying mass that beat against the windows and destroyed Natasha’s visibility. At last, the vehicle screeched to a stop, shaking and groaning as if ready to fall apart.

Natasha immediately unbuckled and pulled the scientist through the car by the arm. "Get out and get down," she demanded urgently.

"Ok, ok, I got it," he said, voice high, tumbling to the ground in his hurry to get out. She pushed him behind the nearest wheel, hoping that between it and herself he would be covered enough to survive .

She drew her gun and waited. Within moments, she spotted movement. She fired, the reverberations of the shots jolting through her body.

The deafening noise of the shots rang to a close in her ears, and the dust settled. No response. 

"Ma'am—"

"Quiet."

Natasha waited tensely for the sniper to make their next move

The instant she heard the gun click, she was moving. She placed herself between the scientist and the unmistakable sound of the safety being released. 

She raised her arm, aimed her gun. 

The sniper fired.

The bullet blasted through her left side, a ripple of fiery pain...

And she shot a round in the sniper's direction barely a second later. 

The bullets soared through the air faster than the eye can see, one headed straight for the sniper’s head. Then, just as it was going to hit, it ricocheted, blocked by an arm made of metal.

Natasha watched, stunned, as Djenya stood smoothly from his spot near the horizon. She couldn't see his face—he was shadowed and too far away—, but she knew they both were staring. He cocked his head, and Natasha dropped her gun arm just slightly. Maybe, just maybe, he recognized her...

He turned and disappeared. Gone before she could even attempt to get through to him.

She wrestled with her thoughts internally. Should she go after him? Or… She looked down. The scientist was still. Seconds from death with the bullet that had torn through her side lodged in his neck.

She had a job to do.

\----

Natasha pushed through the doors and walked purposefully up to the desk, ignoring the spattering of rain visible outside the floor-to-ceiling windows behind it. She had eyes only for the person behind the desk. "I'll be gone two more weeks," she said firmly without greeting.

Nick Fury stood and raised an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

"Yes."

He crossed his arms. "Seems I don't have a choice," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Natasha brushed the reaction aside, already itching to get out of the room, out of SHIELD headquarters, out of the country. She needed to move, to _search_. She refused to lose Djenya again. "I'm informing you so my work can be re-assigned or I’d already be gone."

"I see," he said slowly. He regarded her suspiciously. "What about your injury?"

"I was cleared for active duty," Natasha said. Little more than new tissue was left of the bullet wound. Soon, it would a scar like all the others.

"I don't seem to be following then," Fury said, placing his hands on the desk and leaning forward. "Why _else_ would you need a two-week vacation when you just got back?"

"Something came up."

This cut through Fury's sarcasm, and he regarded her more thoughtfully. "Must be damn well urgent."

Natasha felt a wave of relief. He was stepping down. She was winning. "It is," she said confidently.

He watched her silently. "Two weeks," he said finally, straightening his back. "I'll give Barton the time off too."

Tensing, Natasha forced herself to seem indifferent. "That's not necessary." In fact, it was very _un_ necessary and _un_ welcome. 

“I’m not waiting for him to barge in here and demand to go with you,” Fury sniped. “You can try to convince him not to follow you if you want, I don’t care.”

 _Damn._ He was right. 

"Yes, sir," she conceded, nodding her head and stepping out of the room. As the door closed behind her, she cursed under her breath. Maybe if she left quickly enough—

"Hey!" someone exclaimed, approaching her from the end of the hall. Natasha swore again. "Heard you were meeting with Nicky," Clint Pain-in-the-Ass Barton said as he grew close enough to speak normally.

Natasha walked past Clint without pause.

"Wow, hey, what's the rush?" Clint said, spinning on a heel to follow her, his stupid grin already in place. "Got a mission?"

"Something like that."

"Ah, the ole maybe-if-I'm-short-with-him-he'll-go-away routine," he said knowingly, tapping his nose. "You know that never works."

"You know more than anyone our 'missions' aren't nearly as exciting as people think," she said, subtly implying she was heading towards something boring but adding a hint of humor to hopefully throw him off. It had worked a few times in the past.

Clint was only thrown off for a second. "Uh huh, yeah right. Fury doesn't just hand out run-of-the-mill assignments. It's gotta be something interesting."

Natasha didn't respond, containing her frustration with him. She did _not_ want to deal with this right now. 

"C'mooon," Clint whined. Natasha swore he only did it to annoy her. "Tell me and I'll consider leaving you alone?"

Natasha snorted and pushed through another set of doors.

"I'm serious!" he said, stepping aside as the doors closed behind him. "I'll truly, sincerely consider it."

"I don't have time for this, Clint," Natasha said with false lightness.

Clint's eyebrows scrunched, and he grabbed her arm, trying to slow her down. "Ok, what's wrong?" he asked lowly.

Natasha pulled out of his grip and continued walking.

“ _Natasha_ ,” he said, and she slowed down and glanced at him. He looked determined. “We’re partners.” 

"This doesn't have to do with that."

"Maybe it does, and you don't realize it."

Natasha winced at the reference to her past, her inability to trust anyone, even him, and how it had put them in danger more than once. Manipulative bastard.

She turned to face him fully, knowing no one else was near enough to hear them. "I told Fury I'd be taking more time off," she said calculatingly, watching his expression carefully.

He was equally as serious. "Why?"

"I'm looking for the sniper that killed my assignment in Odessa." Seeing him about to speak, she added. "For personal reasons. Not revenge."

He grimaced and scratched his chin. He really needed to shave. "Alright," he said, obviously thinking this over. "Am I allowed to come?"

Natasha debated it unsurely but finally gave in. "As long as you promise not to ask too many questions."

Clint's stupid grin came back. "You know I can't."

Natasha rolled her eyes and began walking again. Clint skipped a few steps to catch up and followed her.

"So... Where're we going?"

\----

Natasha slammed the door shut behind her and struck her fist into the table of their room, her shoulders tense and her hair hiding her face from view. Month after month of searching, stealing away time whenever Fury allowed it, and still she’d found nothing. What were they doing to him? “ _Pizdets_ ,” she spat, hurling the Russian curse out like a weapon and hitting the table with her fist again. The wood scraped her knuckles. 

"I'm assuming your lead didn't go anywhere," Clint said blasély from the couch.

Natasha closed her eyes and tried to pull her anger back under control. She didn’t want him seeing her like this.

Clint continued to lounge in his spot, examining his hands like a prissy teenager. "You know I can't help you if I don't know what's going on," he said, a hint of bitterness in his tone.

"You don't have to keep coming if you don't want to," Natasha said, barely keeping herself from snarling. This was why trusting people sucked: it was so much harder to hide her emotions from them. She pulled out her gun and dropped it on the table.

Clint was unimpressed. "It's been more than a year," he said pointedly. "Even you wouldn't keep looking like this if you didn't have a better reason than 'I want to' or whatever crap excuse you've come up with."

"What do you want me to say?" she retorted tightly.

"I want the truth," Clint said firmly, standing. "I want you to take a break from this." He paused. "Fury asked you to take the Stark assignment; you should accept it."

Natasha shook her head immediately. "No. That could take months. I can't afford to waste that much time."

"Dammit, Nat, I need you to work with me here!" He took a deep breath and considered her in the way he often had lately. He was deciding whether to say something or not. "Nat…how does…this and all the trips you took when I first recruited you connect?"

Natasha recoiled. "What are you talking about?" she said, suddenly quiet.

"I know there's a link," Clint said with conviction, gesturing with his arms emphatically. "And you're going down the same path as before with the lack of sleep and bad eating habits and…" He slumped. "I'm really worried about you, Nat."

"There's no link." Natasha felt a lump in her throat, and she held her hands behind her back and stood straight in an attempt to distance herself from the conversation. "The situations are completely different."

Clint stiffened. "Please don't lie to me."

Natasha opened her mouth to respond then shook her head. "I don't want to talk about this," she said, turning away, but he circled around her and blocked her way.

"Just tell me why he's so important."

"Clint, stop. Please."

"Just—"

“ _No_ —“

“But _why?!_ It’s so simple. Just tell me _why_ and —”

“Because I love him!”

Clint jerked back, eyes wide, and Natasha kicked herself. Why did she have to say it like that? She sounded weak.

"Loved," she corrected herself quietly. "I loved him. He-he was important to me…before. In the Red Room."

"You love him?" Clint said distantly.

"Used to," she corrected again. "Maybe."

Clint stumbled back and sat on the couch. Natasha carefully followed, sitting in a much more controlled way. They sat quietly, Clint staring at his hands and Natasha looking anywhere but at her partner.

"What happened?" he finally asked. The sentence hung between them, weighing the atmosphere down with unspoken words.

Natasha cleared her throat.

"I guess…" she said, starting haltingly. She'd never had to be so open about her life or feelings before, and it scared her more than she'd thought possible. She took a deep breath and pushed forward, speaking slowly so she didn't stumble over her words. "I first knew him as a teacher. He was from another organization, and they contracted him to the Red Room specifically for my Black Widow training."

She paused and gathered her thoughts. "He...never felt like one of the instructors. He was a sparring partner more than anything. We eventually became friends." Her voice became slightly higher, almost wistful, and Clint looked slightly startled by the change. Natasha looked down at her hands and lowered her voice. "Good friends. I—we both had trust issues, and he had problems with his memory, but once we worked through that, we clicked. Maybe we were just desperate for some sort of kindness or friendship."

Clint hesitantly touched her hand, which had curled into a tight fist, but she pulled away and smiled weakly. She didn't want to appear any more pathetic than she had to. "We fell in love. I sometimes wonder how much of it was real...but it felt like love to us. To me. And to love in a place like that was both one of the best and one of the worst feelings in the world."

Natasha's throat grew too tight to speak, and she trailed off, closing her eyes and taking a moment to gather herself again.

Clint broke the silence. "What happened?"

She sighed heavily. "We managed to escape, just once, but we underestimated how much they wanted to keep a hold of us. They found us a few days later with a tracker, here." She pointed at the thin scar where she'd removed the device from her arm not long after escaping on her own the second time. "I never saw Djenya again."

Clint mulled over the story for some time in silence. While he thought, Natasha watched dust drift through the air to the ground, the slow, steady movement of the particles enabling her to deal with her memories objectively.

"That's his name? Djenya?" Clint said softly, breaking Natasha away from her revery.

The grief lessened just slightly, and Natasha allowed a small smile to quirk her lips. "Short for Yevgeny. He didn't remember his own, and he met someone kind with the name once.” She gave a minuscule shrug. “He liked how it sounded."

Clint snorted. "'s good a way to pick a name as any."

"Yeah," she said, smile a little stronger. Her smile faded quickly as she remembered the next part of the story. "There's…one more thing I think I should tell you," she said tightly, voice wavering slightly.

Clint's brow crinkled, and he nodded to show he was listening.

"When I was recaptured, they…they found out—" Natasha closed her eyes, unable to face his pain and control her own at the same time. "They found out I was pregnant. And I managed to convince them to let me keep him."

She heard Clint suck in a quick breath. "Natasha," he whispered, but she broke in.

"He was so beautiful, our baby. I named him Pyotr Yevgenovich Romanov. That way he had a bit of both me and Djenya. He was only two when—" Natasha's voice broke, and she tensed, curling in on herself minutely, and tried to force her voice to be steady. "A week later, they told me he was—dead. I tried looking for years, for any sign that they'd lied and that he was alive, but there was nothing for—for six _years_ —“ 

To Natasha’s shame and horror, a sob broke through her defenses, and she quickly brought a hand over her mouth, smothering the sound. Her whole body shook with suppressed emotion, but she _could not_ show it. She _couldn’t_. 

She didn’t deserve to grieve. 

"Natasha," Clint said painfully. She could hear tears in his voice. "Just-just let it out, alright? I'm so—I'm so sorry for your loss. I can't even imagine—"

Another sob shook Natasha's body, and she felt a hand gently rest on her knee. With that touch, something broke. Sob after sob wracked through her painfully, and Natasha hugged herself with one arm, the other still covering her mouth to try, unsuccessfully, to hide the evidence of her grief. Tears soaked her skin and slipped past the creases of her fingers and palm, but she barely noticed. All those years of covering up her grief, pain, and fear had finally caught up to her.

She cried for a long time, but through it all, Clint remained steadfast and comforting, keeping a gentle hand on her knee and murmuring nonsensical reassurances to her. Slowly, she felt a heavy weight lift off her shoulders. 

Her tears dried slowly, and she shifted, swiping the rest away. Clint's hand fell from her knee, and she was relieved to notice Clint scrubbing at his own face. He gave her a watery smile, and she returned it shakily.

"You're the strongest person I know," he said with such sincerity and emotion Natasha nearly began to cry again.

"Back at you," she choked out instead, stealing his phrase, and he smiled.

She was finally trusting him.

\----

A few hours later, they were still on the couch, sitting side-by-side comfortably. The conversation had worn them both out, so they sat in relative silence, occasionally supplying comments as they thought.

Natasha relished how peaceful she felt. She knew she'd go back to her regular existence and struggle later. Back to the shame of breaking down so fully. For the moment, however, she just sat with a friend, someone she was finally realizing she trusted more than anyone. After years of managing to survive together, she knew she could count on Clint.

He was only the second person she'd ever risked truly being friends with. He was ridiculous half of the time, but he was also one of the most trustworthy and compassionate people she'd ever met. He risked his job, went against the orders of SHIELD and Fury just to offer her a way to start a new, better life. A way to begin saving herself. That meant more than she could say.

"I think I'll take the Stark assignment," she murmured. "You were right: a break would be good.” She paused, realizing what he might think, and rushed to add, “but only for a little bit,” so Clint wouldn’t think she was “chill” now. 

"Of course," Clint said, and she heard him smile.

Stretching, she stood. "That's settled then," she said, giving him a small smile and beginning to head for her room, but as she turned, Clint grabbed her hand.

"Wait."

Natasha paused, analyzing him automatically. He was nervous, not meeting her eyes for more than a second.

"I have something I need to say," he said, and after a moment’s contemplation, Natasha nodded easily and sat facing him.

He fiddled with his thumbs, looking down. "I wasn't sure if now would be the best time, but I think if I don't tell you now I'll regret it later so…" He shrugged tightly. "I have a family. Wife and kids."

Natasha froze. How was she supposed to respond to that?

"I-I wanted you to know ‘cause I trust you," he said. "And I wanted you to see—" he cut off and shook his head. "Sorry, this must be difficult to hear. I shouldn't have brought it up, but—"

"Clint," Natasha interrupted, tentatively putting a hand on his shoulder. Her head was still reeling with the revelation (Clint had a _family_ ), but she was sure of one thing. “I’m glad you told me,” she said, meeting his eyes to show her sincerity. 

Clint relaxed. "Good, that's—that's good."

Natasha smiled, just a little.

"Do you want me to tell you about them?" he asked. 

Natasha looked down and considered it seriously. On one hand, they'd already talked through a lot today, but on the other, it might be nice to get everything out in the open now rather than later.

"What's your wife's name?" she finally said, opening the conversation.

Clint smiled and told her everything. He talked about Laura and his six-year-old son Cooper and their newly expected child. He described Cooper's shenanigans and Laura's laugh and the way they wouldn't know if the new baby was a boy or a girl for another few weeks and it was driving them all crazy. It was all very domestic and sweet. Clint spoke very fondly of them.

"When can I meet them?" Natasha asked as the conversation wore down.

"You want to?" he said, surprised.

"Of course. They're your family."

He smiled, scratching the back of his head. "Guess next time I go see them, I'll let you know."

"Good."

They were quiet a moment, and Natasha stood.

"Hey, Nat?" he said from the couch, looking up

"Yes?"

"You're a good friend."

A warm feeling spread through her, and she felt the strange urge to grin. Instead, she nodded thankfully and went to bed.

\----

The assignment Clint had urged her to accept became complicated rather quickly to Natasha’s utter _lack_ of a surprise. Stark had the ability to make anything and everything complicated. Even she, who had a very high threshold, found his narcissism and disrespect frustrating. Behind all of it, though, she could see he truly, deeply cared for the few people he'd allowed close to him. He was strangely likable behind the mask. She could tell that a part of his egocentrism, if only a small part, was an act to hide his true feelings.

The disrespect, on the other hand, was genuine.

In the end, she'd been harsher in her assessment of him than usual. What she wrote was true, for the most part, and would have been completely true only two years ago, but she could tell he was changing. He was no monster, never had been. He was nothing like her. Really, he was a good man, in his own way. She hoped her assessment, with the right push from the Director, would be enough to propel him towards greatness.

Despite all of the complications, however, she did find some time to relax and gather herself during the assignment before she went back to searching for Djenya, and she kept Clint's words in mind. She needed to make time for herself to think. Time to enjoy the freedom she had fought so hard for.

\----

It wasn't until after the alien invasion and her encounter with Loki that she truly began the process of rediscovering and redefining who she was away from the Red Room. Up to that point, she only knew that she hated everything she'd done in her past and that she wanted to somehow atone for it. She had known that she preferred to spend time around other people even if she trusted few. Now, though, she began to learn what it was like to have more than one friend. She realized what she liked and didn't like in people. She experimented with showing emotions other than disdain, anger, or indifference to people she didn't yet fully trust.

The other Avengers were instrumental in this. They'd all developed a bond with one another that can only result from having to rely on each other to survive. Though they all went their separate ways after the invasion, they remained in contact, especially once Thor decided to stick around Earth after the events in Greenwich. They'd gather—sometimes all together, sometimes one-on-one—and they’d go on "missions" or just catch up on each other's lives. Natasha rarely initiated such meetings, but Clint often did, always pulling her along with him. And she enjoyed it, more than she thought she would after everything that had gone wrong in her life. Slowly, she began to trust them and see them as friends.

And she learned. Through Bruce's friendship, she grew to understand her compassion. Through Steve's, her morals and her strength to follow them. Through Tony, a sense of dark humor and an ability to move on despite past mistakes. She even grew close to Thor, though she found him the hardest to relate with, and by observing him and his love for his brother, she began to come to terms with herself and the love she had built with Djenya.

Still, throughout it all, she searched.

\----

Steve. Steve was the one Djenya had always tried to remember from his past. And Djenya was Steve's friend, his Bucky.

How completely typical was it that one of the few things about her past that she viewed as somewhat normal and human turned out to be one of the strangest things she'd ever experienced? And really, how likely was it that the person she'd fallen in love with in the Red Room would turn out to be the long-presumed-dead, born-during-the-twenties, best friend of Captain America?

And now he was gone. _Again._ This time leaving both her _and_ Steve behind. 

Natasha was well and truly pissed. Of course, he would show up after years of searching, drop this on her, and leave. Of _course_. 

Natasha sighed heavily, safe in the knowledge that she was alone in the car as she drove. She knew it wasn’t his fault, she did. She just _hated_ everything about this. It was so _frustrating_. She understood he was confused, but did he really have to run after pulling Steve out of the Potomac? 

_He probably needed to_ , she conceded privately. Decades of brainwashing and forced amnesia didn't go away with one realization. She knew that better than most. She was glad, relieved even, that he was well on the way to freedom.

Still. It was easier to be angry than to deal with the feelings of grief and pain his appearance renewed.

Shaking her head, she parked the car smoothly between narrow white lines, halfway under a canopy of leaves and shade, and stepped out of the car, grabbing the file from the passenger side as she did. The file would have been difficult—impossible even—to find in the past, but knowing Djenya's real name opened doors she'd never had access to. With her newfound information, plus the leverage she had in Ukraine, the file had fallen into her hands with only a few well-placed tugs. It had been almost infuriatingly simple.

She spotted them well before reaching the grave site: Steve and his new buddy Sam. The Director—who was just Nick now, she supposed—approached from behind them, and she knew he had to have asked if they would assist him in rooting out remnants of HYDRA from SHIELD. He’d asked her the same only hours before. They, rather predictably, were refusing.

**“Alright then,” she just barely heard Nick say, his voice growing clearer the closer she became. He shook hands with Sam then Steve. “Anybody asks for me, tell them they can find me”—he nodded at the gravestone—“right here.” With that, he walked away. 

Natasha smiled. "You should be honored," she said to the pair, watching Nick leave before switching her gaze to meet theirs. "That's about as close as he gets to saying thank you."

Steve walked to meet her, Sam following. "Not going with him?"

"No," Natasha scoffed gently, still smiling to keep the mood light-hearted. She wouldn't set aside her search when this kind of lead was on the table.

"Not staying here," Steve stated.

"Nah." She nearly adding something more, an excuse maybe or a request, but moved on, handing him the file and shifting the conversation. "I called in a few favors from Kiev."

Steve took it gently, staring at the cover. Natasha didn't speak as he opened the folder and ran a thumb along the photo. She could see the pain in his eyes as clear as day.

He looked back up. "Thank you."

"I'm being a friend," Natasha said simply, referencing their conversation on the way to Jersey.

Steve smiled slightly. "Thanks all the same."

Natasha only nodded.

Steve looked back at the file, eyes running over the words on the pages analytically.

"You're going after him," Sam said matter-of-factly, resigned.

Steve didn't bother to confirm or deny. The answer was obvious. "You don't have to come with me."

"I know."**

"We both do," Natasha said, finally revealing her intention to come with them.

They looked somewhat surprised, but they didn't question it.

Nodding his thanks, Steve stood taller, newly determined. "I know just where to start."

\----

_”Only two days ago, on January 12, SHIELD's intelligence database was uploaded to the Internet in what many are calling the largest government leak in history. Then today, Avenger and former-SHIELD agent Natasha Romanoff attended a hearing before a board of military and government officials in Delaware. During said hearing, she informed the board that she was the one to leak the information, with the backing of Captain America, and that she did so in order to reveal HYDRA's machinations within SHIELD before they could cover it up. HYDRA, of course, is the Nazi, terrorist organization the Captain himself went up against back in the 40s.”_

The night show host paused as the crowd murmured. 

_”Ms. Romanoff's move was a gutsy one, to be sure, and no one is taking HYDRA's presence lightly. A wide array of organizations and governments worldwide including the CIA, the UN, and even Apple have announced their intention to begin an intense, internal search of—”_

The video paused and reversed ten seconds. “ _...-wide including the CIA—“_ The screen paused again and stayed put this time, frozen on a snapshot of the CIA’s press release.

Peter Parker stared, eyes flicking between it and a picture of the Winter Soldier posted in an online news article on another window of Aunt May's computer. Sitting back, he ran a hand over his head, pulling at his hair harshly.

This whole thing was making him nervous, more nervous than May and Ben and Ned. And it had all started with watching this video on YouTube last week.

Just an hour ago, he read that several, large HYDRA bases were found abandoned in Russia. And he knew the CIA had rescued him from the captivity of a _secret_ , _unmarked_ organization.

Peter may be only 12, but he was far from stupid. This was all too familiar. He couldn’t just _ignore_ a connection like this. 

Maybe—maybe he could finally find his parents. Surely there would be some sort of document about enhanced people like them in a SHIELD’s database. And if HYDRA _was_ who kidnapped him as a kid, maybe there’d be mention of him too.

Peter pulled his chair closer to the desk and curled his toes into the carpet, opening a new window on the computer. It wouldn't be too hard to find SHIELD's database, but there would be a lot to search through. It wouldn't be easy.

He hoped May and Ben didn't get home from work too quickly. He needed to concentrate if he wanted to find what he was looking for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Between the asterisks (**), the majority of the character's lines are taken directly from Captain America: The Winter Soldier. No copyright infringement is intended if anyone with the power to sue reads this and is worried about such a thing.
> 
> Sorry this took so long too.
> 
> And can you guess who the night show host is based off of? XD
> 
> Also, added the cover art for this story to the first chapter if you want to check it out!


	5. To find hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all, I am SO SO sorry this took so long to update! You all have been angels, literal angels, to put up with all my procrastinating and slowness and still read and follow and leave reviews. Without you guys, I wouldn't have sat down and finally edited this thing (in one day, can you believe it? I wrote for hours today haha). Thank you all so much.

Bucky stumbled into his motel room and slumped to the ground, dropping his head in his hands.

The memory had been strong this time, much stronger than usual. All because he'd seen someone with red hair.

The moment he'd seen the woman in the market, she'd reminded him of _her_. He'd felt a pain in his chest, and memories had assaulted his senses: the biting smell of sweat; the twisting, squeaking sound of ballet shoes on a wooden floor; a small but warm smile.

Turning from the market and shoving the memory away, he'd fled all the way back to this room.

Bucky scrubbed his eyes. His elbow bumped the back wall painfully as he did, but he barely noticed. Where had that memory come from? In the months since he'd run into Steve, he thought he'd gained a good grasp on his life before the war, of all the faces and names, but he had no memory of this woman.

He wished, foolishly, that he could talk to Steve. Stevie'd know what to do. Well, maybe he wouldn't since he'd always been horrible at emotions involving women, but Steve _knew_ Bucky. Maybe he'd remember who she was.

But Bucky couldn't contact Steve. He refused to hurt his friend again, and all he was capable of anymore was pain. The woman must be dead anyway. Like everyone else he'd ever cared about.

Bucky took a deep breath and turned to the backpack he'd dropped by the door when he careened in. He'd run before he could buy everything he needed from the market. Only got the medical supplies, none of the food.

Dragging himself to his feet, he pulled up the backpack. Retrieving the bandages, he cleaned and rewrapped the knife wound from a HYDRA encounter two nights ago.

There was no point in going back to the market. He could eat later.

Slumping on the couch, he picked up his notebook and placed pen to paper.

_2014, April 4. Memory of person, female. Unknown time frame. Remembered that she had red hair…_

\----

Steve walked into the common area of the Avengers' tower and made a beeline for the couch where Natasha sat.

He shoved a piece of paper at her. "What do you think?"

Natasha stared at his tense, hopeful expression and looked down cautiously. He'd printed out an anonymous email. One blurry photo of a man who looked like Dj—Barnes (he wasn't Djenya anymore), face partially obscured, was placed at the center of the email, followed by a location.

"It looks like a sketchy lead," she said eventually even as her heart rose slightly. It was the first they'd had in months.

He watched her expression carefully. Glanced at the paper. Back at her. Finally, he nodded decisively. "I'm following it," he said, beginning to walk away.

Natasha stood. "What about the team? You know they need your help with HYDRA."

Not turning, he slowed to a stop, shoulders stiff. "They'll have you. And Tony…"

"Steve." She pulled his arm and spun him to face her gently. "A leader can't go running off for just anything, no matter how important."

"What would you know about leading?" Steve shot back immediately, but Natasha was silent, waiting patiently. Sure enough, a few seconds later, he sighed, rubbing his hand over his face. "Sorry."

Natasha gave a tiny shrug and waited for him to meet her eyes. He did so slowly. "Send me," she said. "If the lead is good, I'll let you know, and you can follow."

He slumped and sighed. "Alright," he said, defeated.

She patted his shoulder uncertainly. "This isn't giving up."

"I know," he said, smiling sadly.

"You'll send the email to me?"

He nodded mutely.

"I'll keep in touch, Steve," Natasha reassured him, and she left.

\----

The lead ended up coming to nothing. Barnes was long gone by the time she tracked down his most recent hideout, and there was no sign of where he was running to next. Steve and the rest finally found Strucker's HYDRA base, though, so Natasha rendezvoused with them to raid it, leading to the recapture of Loki's scepter, the creation of Ultron, and all the chaos that followed.

They were recuperating at Clint's place. Thor had left, Bruce was upstairs resting, Clint and Laura were talking quietly in the other room, and Steve and Tony had moved outside. Cooper had gone off to do his own thing, so Natasha was left entertaining Lila to distract herself from the visions she'd seen and the reminders of Petya.

Lila snatched a pile of papers from the kitchen counter and rushed back to Natasha, her grin wide. She nearly tripped on the way back, but she managed to keep her balance.

"Look, Auntie Nat, look!" Lila squealed, shoving the papers into Natasha's grasp and tumbling into her lap to help show them off.

Natasha smiled and flipped through Lila's childish drawings. They were adorable. "These are wonderful, Lila," she said, poking the little girl to make her giggle.

Lila squirmed and twisted around, re-obtaining the drawings and shifting through to find one in particular, the rest falling to the ground in the process. She giggled again and fluttered it in Natasha's face. "Look, look, this one's for you!"

A stick figure with bright red hair and a sword was scribbled onto the center of the page with a yellow circle in the right hand corner to represent the sun. Natasha laughed. "Is this me?"

"It's you as a knight!" Lila said brightly. "Do you like it?"

"I love it," Natasha said, ruffling the girl's hair.

Lila grinned and scrambled up to grab the rest of her drawings and place them haphazardly on the countertop again. "Hey, Auntie—" she began, but a sharp crack rang from outside where Steve and Tony were chopping wood for Laura, cutting the girl off.

Natasha looked out the window. They were tense, arguing, defensive.

"Auntie Nat," Lila said hesitantly.

Natasha turned back to the child and motioned her over welcomingly. The girl slumped back into her lap. "What is it, Lila?"

"Did something bad happen?" she asked with wide eyes, staring at Natasha worriedly.

Natasha slumped, just slightly. "Yes," she said, not wanting to lie to the girl.

"Oh," Lila said softly. "You'll fix it though, right? With daddy's team."

"Always," Natasha said and kissed the girl on the head. Lila relaxed, smiling again.

"You should go draw more of those beautiful pictures," Natasha said quietly, lips quirking. "The team and I'll need to come up with a plan soon."

Lila nodded happily and hopped up. "Ok," she chirped and skipped out of the room to grab her crayons and paper.

Natasha chuckled and unfolded from her seat on the floor.

"The kiddos upstairs?" Clint said from the door.

"Cooper is," Natasha replied, glancing behind him where she could see Laura directing Tony toward the barn. Clint shared a significant look with her, eyes flicking outside, and Natasha nodded.

"I'll go see what he's up to," Clint said, heading for the stairs, and Natasha walked past him onto the porch, pulling herself into the right mood for the conversation she knew was coming.

Steve looked up as she came out, but he glanced away again quickly, dropping his ax to split another chunk of wood. Natasha approached with mild amusement.

"Have a good talk with Tony?"

Steve grabbed another cut of wood and put it in position. "Not exactly," he responded and dropped the ax again.

Natasha watched him chop silently, sitting smoothly on the trunk Tony had been using. Steve's stack was piling up quickly.

"I know you're upset," she stated at last.

Steve still didn't meet her eyes. "I wish he'd trusted the team enough to tell us his idea. I could have told him…well…"

Natasha cocked her head minutely. "So you think he doesn't trust you."

"He's never trusted me," Steve scoffed softly. "Never will. Not that I blame him."

"Why?"

Steve shrugged and split another piece of wood in two.

"Is it because of the Starks?"

Steve stiffened and finally looked at her. "What do you mean?"

Natasha met his eyes pointedly. "I shouldn't need to spell it out for you."

Steve shook his head and looked away. "Howard and his wife died because of me."

"HYDRA killed them, Steve, not you," Natasha said.

"And HYDRA was only around to kill them because I failed to stop them in the first place."

Natasha stood, causing him to look back at her again. "That doesn't make their death your fault."

"Maybe," Steve sighed, placing his ax aside and beginning to gather wood slices to be stacked by the house. Natasha grabbed a few pieces and followed.

"You should tell him after all this is over," she said as she arranged the wood beside Steve's.

Steve rejected the idea immediately. "I can't. He won't be able to face me again, and it'll tear the team apart."

"It's like you don't trust him," Natasha said, hinting.

"I do," Steve insisted. "I just don't think he'll respond well."

"Meaning you don't trust him," Natasha returned pointedly and Steve huffed but didn't respond. "But you should. He'll understand if you tell him."

"Maybe," Steve said heavily.

She shrugged and left him to think.

\----

Natasha stood in an empty room, eyes closed. The battle was over, and so much had changed. She needed the time to think.

In many ways, it felt like she was losing her family all over again. She'd grown to trust the others so much and now only Steve and her were left… Bruce and Thor had disappeared; Tony and Clint were retiring. She'd barely see them anymore.

Footsteps came up behind her. Steve's.

"Tired?" he said when he was beside her. He sounded weary, though determined, himself.

Natasha shrugged and turned to face him, opening her eyes. "Enjoying a bit of time alone."

Steve nodded understandingly.

"Did you tell Tony finally?" she asked curiously.

"After Thor left," Steve said, his eyes flicking away.

"How'd he take it?"

"He took it." Steve shrugged self-consciously and changed the subject, handing Natasha a tablet. "We have work to do."

"Don't think they're a team yet?"

"Not even close," Steve said with good humor, lips quirking, "but they'll learn fast."

\----

It had been more than a year since the SHIELD and HYDRA info dump, but Peter still found himself drawn to the leaked files. He'd finally learned the best way to access them last summer despite all of SHIELD's encryptions and codes, but it had turned out to be much, much harder to find what he wanted than he would have liked. SHIELD and HYDRA had hundreds of connections to Russia and thousands of files related to it. Peter wasn't even sure he _was_ Russian. For all he knew, HYDRA stole him from his parents in _Finland_ or something.

All together, the situation was feeling more and more hopeless the more he searched. Still, even after all this time, he found himself searching.

Peter groaned and dropped his head on the desk. He'd been on the computer for _hours_. _And_ he was starting high school in two weeks which was going to be nerve-wracking regardless of Ned transferring to the same school as him. He was _exhausted_.

Hearing a key slip into the door lock, he quickly closed the windows on the computer and shut it off, spinning in his chair.

"Hey, Uncle Ben," Peter squeaked then winced.

"Hey, kiddo," Ben said, amused, and he set aside his work bag. He was used to his nephew's antics. "What's up?"

"Oh, nothing," Peter said, clearing his throat. "Just, uh, playing on the computer, you know?"

Ben snorted. "Typical."

Peter's shoulders relaxed, and he rolled his eyes. Ben _always_ pretended to be at odds with technology just to irritate Peter. "You're not _that_ old," Peter said, knowing that was his uncle's insinuation from experience.

"Ah, but I'm older than _you_ ," Ben said, scuffing up Peter's hair as he passed, making the boy squawk.

"Ben!" Peter whined, but his uncle only laughed. Peter huffed and changed the subject. "Where's May?"

"She's doing an evening shift today, remember? She won't get back till nine," Ben said.

"Oh," Peter said, kicking himself for forgetting, "right."

"Right," Ben repeated, tossing Peter an apple from the kitchen. Peter just barely caught it, almost dropping it again once he had it. "You need to eat, kid, your brain's melting."

"Yeah, yeah," Peter said, pretending to be annoyed but digging into the apple right away and meandering into the kitchen to see what Ben was doing. Butter and bread were by the cutting board and he seemed to be searching through the fridge for something. "Whatcha makin'?" Peter mumbled through his chewing.

"Grilled cheese," Ben said, finally emerging from the fridge with the cheese block and lunch meat. "Want one?"

"Yes, please," Peter grinned, hopping up on the counter to watch his uncle cook.

Ben snorted and shook his head. "Don't let your aunt know I let you do that."

"She wouldn't care," Peter said, and Ben sent him a look. Peter laughed. " _Really_."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," Ben said, teasing.

"Well," Peter stumbled over his words, "I'm, like, kinda almost an adult anyway, so even if she _did_ care…"

"Petya," Ben deadpanned. "You're fourteen."

"Right, but I'll be eighteen in three and a half years so I'm really close."

"Ah, but even if you _were_ almost eighteen, it wouldn't matter," Ben said, clicking his tongue. He finished preparing the sandwiches and placed them side by side on the pan. The butter sizzled. "You aren't an adult till you can legally drink," he continued matter-of-factly once the sandwiches were going.

"That's not true," Peter said, face screwing up.

"Is in my book," Ben said.

"Well, it isn't in mine," Peter said, deflating slightly. Ben chuckled.

The sandwiches were finished quickly, and Peter chomped on his happily as they made their way to the living room with the intent of finding a good movie on one of the tv stations. The news played in the background as they scrolled through the station guide.

"Aw man!" Peter said. "We missed _Monsters, Inc_!"

"Oh, well, looks like they have _Journey into Fear_ playing in fifteen," Ben said somewhat seriously.

Peter wrinkled his nose. "That sounds like a horror movie."

"I think it's one of those black-and-white spy films, actually," Ben said. "Heard it was decent. Better than _Royal Hearts_ , whatever that movie is."

" _Anything_ sounds better than _Royal Hearts_ ," Peter said in disgust.

Ben laughed.

They scrolled a bit more.

" _Taken 2_?" Peter suggested.

"Have you seen the first one?" Ben asked.

Peter shrugged. "I saw a few scenes once."

Ben hummed. "Should probably watch the first before you watch the second."

" _And tonight_ ," the news anchor was saying as they scrolled, " _we have new leads that suggests the Black Widow may have a child_."

"Wait, what did they just say?" Peter said, grabbing the remote and switching the current station to full screen.

They were showing a few clips of a file and some news lady, but Peter's attention was focused on the glimpse of the file. It was in the same format as the ones he'd been looking through for the last year. A SHIELD or HYDRA file.

" _You don't want to miss it_ ," the news anchor finished, and a car commercial began.

"They call themselves a news station," Ben muttered to himself, but Peter frowned. He didn't think the Black Widow had a kid, of course, but if someone had found something to do with a kid in the SHIELD files…

Peter pushed off the couch and approached the desk computer in the corner of the room.

"What're you up to, Petya?" Ben said, turning to watch him.

"I don't know," Peter mumbled, waking up the computer and putting in the password. "I'm curious now though…"

He googled the information and found an article on it a few links down.

"There's not any use looking into it, Petya," Ben said. "It's just gossip."

"I know," Peter said, scanning through the article. "I just…" he trailed off as he found the file that the new "evidence" had been based off of. It listed information on the capture of a kid with two enhanced parents.

The file wasn't about Black Widow. It was about him and his parents.

He heard Ben get up and look over his shoulder. "Petya…" he started, but he trailed off also as the information he was reading sank in.

"Is this…?"

Peter swallowed. "I-I think the location is the same as where I was first taken from. I still have a copy of the files the CIA found. Mom and Dad were able to get one, and I looked at it recently a-and it's the same, I'm pretty sure."

To suspect it for so long was one thing, but to really _know_ and see the evidence in front of him… Peter turned to Ben, eyes wide.

"It was HYDRA."

Ben pulled Peter unhesitantly into a hug, and Peter held him back just as tightly, head buried in his uncle's shoulder.

\----

It had been a long day of training, and everyone was gathered in the Compound's common room to rest and eat—food courtesy of Rhodey that night. Now full, many were reading or half asleep or both.

Natasha was curled up on one of the couches playing sudoku. It was strange, even to her, to enjoy something so conventional, but she'd found she enjoyed the puzzles from time to time, particularly the variants. They were challenging enough to not be boring but simple enough to be relaxing.

Steve, who was falling asleep on the adjoining couch, groaned as Sam snickered yet _again_ at whatever he was reading. Steve slapped his friend's arm without opening an eye, trying to get him to be quiet, but Sam just waved him away.

"What is it this time, Sam?" Natasha asked, amused. Steve groaned again and dropped an arm over his eyes. Wanda, who'd curled up on the opposite couch, peeked open an eye to watch them.

Sam snorted. "'New evidence that Avenger Natasha Romanoff has a secret love child!'" he read off his phone with over-the-top enthusiasm.

"Why on earth are you reading gossip rags?" Steve muttered under his breath.

"It's the internet," Sam justified, still snickering. "God, why do people write this crap?" he said as he clicked the link to the article.

"Because people like you read it," Natasha said drily, already dismissing the issue. She'd seen dozens of articles like it in the past and none of them were based in fact.

Sam continued to scan through the article regardless, but he became curiously serious the more he read. Suddenly, his face twisted with contempt. "This is disgusting," he said.

Steve sat up stretching and rubbed his eyes tiredly. "What is?" he said more alertly.

"The evidence they're using is from a HYDRA file detailing the kidnapping of a _two-year-old_."

Steve leaned over to see the file, and Natasha frowned, setting aside the puzzle at last and uncurling from her spot on the couch.

Steve grimaced as he read.

"Let me see," Natasha said, reaching a hand out. Sam handed over his phone without protest.

Her blood ran cold. The file, a report, was dated to 2003. The week Petya had died. And the kidnapping had happened from a very, very familiar location.

"He survived," she murmured to herself, staring at the typed black words.

"They should have been reporting on how horrifying this is," Sam ranted, not hearing her. "HYDRA's completely messed up, obviously, but kidnapping babies is another thing entirely."

"That poor child," Wanda whispered.

Natasha glanced at the young woman. Her eyes were sad, though not surprised. She was obviously thinking of her own experiences with HYDRA, and the thought made Natasha sick. HYDRA could have been torturing her baby this whole time...

She needed to find him.

Shakily, she scanned through the rest of the file, searching for where they'd taken him afterwards. Nothing in the file suggested a location, though, so Natasha searched further, looking for the file's origin and trying to find any other files connected to it.

Her fingers flew over the phone, and she heard and saw nothing but what was in front of her. When someone touched her arm, she shrugged them off with barely a thought.

She found something quickly, thank god for her knowledge of SHIELD's workings. There were several files connected to the first, and one gave her a location of the HYDRA base he was taken to afterwards. Another detailed a raid on this base by an unknown group—most likely American given who they rescued during the raid—and the subsequent actions put forth by HYDRA to close the facility down. And in one of the footnotes of the file, there was one small sentence.

_All projects to be moved to other, undisclosed facilities according to the wishes of the researchers._

"Natasha?" Steve said worriedly. "What's wrong?"

Natasha looked up, relief and fear, anger and hope rushing through her and changing so quickly Natasha could barely think.

"What's going on?" Steve said again.

Before Natasha could try to speak, Vision tentatively cut in.

"I am... sorry to interrupt," he said uncertainly, drawing their attention. "But I believe we may have finally located Sergeant Barnes." He pulled up a Venezuelan police statement on the nearby screen. A man was almost mugged an hour ago, and the witness claimed he was rescued by a man with a metal arm who disappeared immediately after.

Steve hesitated, glancing between the screen and Natasha, but she had straightened, her face blank. Anger rushed through her, anger with Hydra, with Barnes, with everyone around her, with herself. Especially with herself.

They were going to follow this lead and then she'd find her baby. With or without Barnes.

\----

"Alright, everyone," Steve said, turning to face them all. They'd been on the ground in Venezuela for fifteen minutes now, but nothing at the site of the mugging seemed significant. "We don't know where Bucky went from here, so we'll have to spread out and search. Vision, Wanda, you head south; Rhodes, take the west; Sam, east; and Natasha—"

"I've got north covered. You go with Sam," she cut in firmly. Steve had been worrying about her the whole trip, and she didn't need him following her to try and figure out what was wrong.

Steve let out a slow breath. "I'll look here and see if he stayed nearby. If any of you find him, I'll be able to get to you more quickly. Hopefully, a friendly face will convince him not to run," he finished, trying to cover his nerves with a small smile.

Natasha kicked herself internally. She should have known he would understand the need to focus on the situation. She sent him an apologetic look, and he shrugged minutely, understanding.

"Go quickly, but stay close to the ground," Steve continued. "We don't want to draw too much attention."

"Got it," Sam said, and everyone took off.

Natasha jogged down the street, searching for any sign that Barnes took this path. The small glimpses of morning light helped the search, but so far nothing. Barnes would have been heading for a safe area, likely one he'd set up previously alongside others throughout the city, and without knowledge of the area, she was running blind.

How long would he risk staying to cover his tracks before fleeing elsewhere? He wouldn't stay after saving someone like that, of course, not with HYDRA after him, but if he didn't want anyone following, he'd have to cover his tracks…

She slowed suddenly, her instincts buzzing.

There was a hole in the wall next to her, barely noticeable, unremarkable. It was exactly the sort of place she would scope for a hideout, and she was over fifteen minutes from the scene of the attempted mugging… far enough to be confident of losing someone, at least with a skillset like hers and Barnes'.

Keeping her breathing steady, she approached, listening for sound from within.

Something scraped softly against stone, a distant sound, and steeling herself, Natasha rushed through, gun at the ready. A gunshot cut through the air, killing the silent stillness, but Natasha was already behind cover. Before she could respond, a shadow sped out of the room through another exit, not bothering to stay behind and see if she was down.

"Wait!" she called, giving chase and zigzagging to make a harder target if he decided to shoot again. Barnes didn't hesitate, sprinting from street to street and jumping over obstacles.

"What's going on?" Steve said urgently from her earpiece. She focused on the chase, ignoring how everyone was chattering and swearing.

"Barnes!" she called, but he jumped up, sending a large trash can flying towards her as he leaped onto the low roof. Natasha cursed and dodged, using another ledge to follow him. She lost a dozen meters with the delay.

"Natasha! Where is he?!"

She began to respond but Barnes turned suddenly and she had to duck to avoid the bullets. "Damnit! Barnes, stop!"

He began running again.

"James!" she tried, but still he didn't stop.

"Natasha, location!"

"Djenya!" she tried at last, desperate.

\----

Bucky screeched to a stop, and he spun to meet the woman who'd used that name. That oh-so-familiar name. It wasn't his and yet it was. From a time he hadn't remembered before, when he hadn't known his name…

The woman slowed to a stop a few meters away, carefully reaching up to switch off her earpiece.

Her hair was red.

"Djenya," she said again, and Bucky's mind flooded with memories, memories of the red-haired woman, of training, of fighting, of happiness despite everything being so wrong—

"Do you remember me?" she said slowly, hands out non-threateningly.

"Remember you?" Bucky whispered, memory after memory still returning to him like pieces of a puzzle he hadn't realized were missing.

"I was with Steve in DC," she prompted, but Bucky shook his head.

"No, no, I knew you before," he said, certain he was right. "In, in that place where we trained together, the, the, the Red Room. We knew each other…"

She hesitated slightly. "When we met… I went by Natalia."

"Natasha?" he said with sudden realization, voice wavering.

She nodded silently. _Natasha_. He'd found _Natasha_. How had he not remembered her before? He-he'd _loved_ her.

"I'm so sorry," Bucky said, backing up a step. "I didn't remember—"

"That's not your fault," she said softly, mirroring him with a step forward.

"How are you—why are you—?" He cut himself off, not sure what he was trying to ask. He was so lost.

"Steve," she started. "He needs you. I—" She closed her eyes briefly. "We want to help."

Help... What did that mean? Putting themselves in danger? Making them more of a target to HYDRA? Just so he wouldn't be lonely? No, he couldn't. Not to Steve and not…not to Natasha.

He had to believe that it was enough to know they were alive.

He backed away, chest tight. "I'll only hurt you. Both of you."

"It hurts more for you to be away," she said quietly, and Bucky dug his nails into his palm.

"You don't understand. I _can't_ stay."

"Djenya," she said, and there was so much emotion in her tone that Bucky froze. Her hand was shaking, quivering by her side unbeknownst to her, so consumed she was by her own thoughts and what she'd say next. Bucky couldn't remember ever seeing her like this, and it frightened him.

Her voice drifted through the wind and only just reached his ears. "We have a child."

Everything but Natasha fell around him and shattered, and the words echoed in his ear drums again and again and again. _We have a child_.

"What?" he heard himself say hoarsely. It couldn't be true.

"I-I didn't find out until you were already taken," she said. She choked a harsh laugh. "It's a miracle Vasilisa let me keep him. And, and I thought he was dead, but he was with HYDRA this whole time. HYDRA took him and they could be—and he's been alone all these years." Her voice broke and she took a moment to compose herself.

"At least come back and help find him," she said, a lone tear slipping down her face. "Please, _please_ , help find him."

Bucky wanted to move, to comfort her, but he couldn't. He had a kid. A _son_. And HYDRA had taken him. Every pain, every misery, every time they broke Bucky haunted him. The people who'd made him suffer for decades had a kid at their mercy, _his_ kid. It-it was unthinkable, horrifying, terrifying.

"No," he said in disbelief. "No."

"We _need_ to find him, Djenya," she pleaded.

Bucky…he saw a kid once. In one of the labs. Before Pierce had taken over. The kid had been so _tiny_ , all scrawny and young with huge, expressive eyes. Bucky had been so shaken by the appearance of him and the conversation about him, the experimenting, that he'd had a relapse later and he'd been wiped.

"Bucky?" someone said, and Bucky jumped, turning to face the voice. Steve stood there, bewildered, even a little scared. "What happened? What's wrong?"

Bucky tried to speak, but his voice came out strangled and unintelligible.

Natasha spoke for them both. "Remember the kid in the article?" she said, voice shaking.

"You're not saying…" Steve said. "That kid wasn't actually yours... Was he?"

Natasha nodded jerkily. "Both of ours," she said.

"But—oh god," Steve whispered. "He was taken by HYDRA."

Natasha looked away.

"We have to go," Bucky said, breaking from his frozen state and filling with panicked urgency. Anything could have been happening to their child, and they wouldn't know. They needed to find him _now_ , before he was hurt any further.

"Steve?" Natasha said.

Steve shook himself and put a hand to his ear. "Everyone to the plane." He winced as whoever else was connected to his earpiece began chattering. Bucky could almost hear them. "Yes, we found Bucky. I'll explain in a moment."

Steve awkwardly motioned in the direction of the plane, and they all began jogging towards it silently, caught up in their own thoughts. Bucky focused on his movement, the beating of his feet against the ground, the speed. Though Steve was faster, both Bucky and Natasha were also enhanced so they made good time. It seemed only minutes before they were slowing down and meeting up with others.

One man—the one with metal wings—ran up soon as he saw them. "Rhodey's preparing the plane. Wanda and Vision are almost here."

"Thanks, Sam," Steve said, his breathing barely changed after the exertion of the run. He jogged up to the plane entrance, and Sam followed, only sparing a moment to glance at Bucky and Natasha curiously.

"C'mon," Natasha said with some dread, and Bucky followed her lead, looking around the plane cautiously. He felt strangely nervous. Maybe it was the confined space.

The engine hummed underfoot, and up ahead, a man who must have been Rhodey was talking with Steve and Sam. They were saying something about him, but Bucky looked away before he could tell what.

Two others came onto the plane behind them. One a woman and the other some sort of red, humanoid machine.

"Sergeant Barnes," the robot said immediately, reaching out a hand. "I am glad to meet you. Captain Rogers has been quite worried."

Bucky hesitantly shook the robot's hand.

"My name is Vision," the robot continued, unfazed by Bucky's unresponsiveness.

"Natasha," the woman said, ignoring the introductions. She had a faint accent, Sokovian, but it was well-masked in an American one. "What is going on? We heard such strange things over the radio…"

"It seems as though the article Sam found was more correct than we first assumed," Vision said more bluntly.

"Yes," Natasha said simply, straight-backed. The emotion she'd shown before was gone, trapped behind the mask she'd picked up in the Red Room.

"Get ready for takeoff," the pilot, Rhodey, called. Bucky hesitated, looking back at the closing exit once, before buckling into one of the seats. He kept at least a seat between him and everyone else, even Natasha. Steve sat directly across from him, trying and failing to hide his concern. With how often Steve kept sending him furtive looks, Bucky wasn't sure how he _wasn't_ supposed to notice.

No one spoke till the plane was level.

Steve was the first to try and break the silence, but Bucky cut in before he could start, already guessing what he would say. "I'm fine, Steve."

Steve frowned. "What do you remember?" he said seriously.

Bucky wasn't able to meet his eyes. "Enough," he said. If he was honest with himself, this was another reason he hadn't considered staying in DC. He didn't want to disappoint Steve with how different he was.

"Bucky," Steve said, and he slowly looked up. Steve's face was so pleading. "You need to work with me here."

He took a shuddering breath. "I—I remember the war most. The bodies, the—" He slowed, brow creasing with concentration to avoid the pain of his memories. "And… after. Some of after the war."

"What about before?" Steve said quietly.

"I had parents," Bucky said, relaxing slightly, "and a sister. She married a…a banker, right?" Steve nodded, and Bucky smiled weakly. "My family didn't like you much, I think, you being Catholic, but I convinced them to let you come over, even for Hanu—"

" _Subhuman_."

" _Crossbreed_."

" _Bastard_."

"Bucky?"

His attention focused on Steve with an almost superhuman speed.

"You were saying something about Hanukkah," Steve said slowly, and Bucky suppressed a flinch. Steve became stony-faced. "They didn't… Those _fu_ —"

"It's not important," Bucky said, swallowing uneasily. When Steve looked about to protest, Bucky continued quickly. "Not right now."

Steve pushed aside his fury with clear difficulty.

"…Where are we going?" Natasha said after a pause, sending Bucky a look that clearly showed her intention of talking with him later. There'd be a line if Steve's expression was anything to go by.

"Tony's," Steve said, still stiff and frowning.

"Steve, we need—"

"We need to regroup," Steve interrupted. "Tony can help us."

Natasha grew cold, and Bucky tensed. That look was never good, that much he knew.

"What about your lover's quarrel?"

Steve's jaw tightened.

"Did you even bother to ask for his help with Barnes?" Natasha said.

"I did, actually," Steve said.

Natasha narrowed her eyes. "When?"

"Recently. He helped Vision come up with a way to find leads for us."

Natasha changed tactics. "We can't afford to waste time. We know where Petya last was; we need to go there."

Steve began to refute, but the man with the wings interrupted.

"Look," Sam said, drawing all of their attention, "not that this hasn't been informative, but I'd really appreciate if you calmed down a sec and filled us in on what's happening." Though his words were slightly sarcastic, his tone was tentative.

"We ask in the nicest way possible," Rhodey pitched in from the front.

Natasha looked away, closing off, but Steve sighed, rubbing his face tiredly. "I'm sorry."

"It's understandable," Sam said reasonably. "Just let us in so we can help you. All of you," he added pointedly, looking from Steve to Natasha to Bucky. His gaze lingered calculatingly on Bucky before returning to Steve. "Why do we need to regroup?"

Steve glanced at Natasha and Bucky, but neither moved to respond. Bucky was having a hard enough time processing as it was. He didn't want to explain the situation to strangers.

Clearing his throat, Steve addressed Sam. "We're looking for a kid. Natasha's. And Bucky's."

"Right," Sam said blankly, obviously startled. "Do, uh, do we know where the kid might be?"

"No," Natasha said, still looking away. "Only where he was."

Several people shifted awkwardly, and Bucky looked at his hands.

"Natasha," he said quietly when no one spoke. He waited until she looked at him. He had to know now, regardless of whether others were listening. "What happened?"

Her eyes softened with grief. "When Petya was two," she began, quiet and bitter, "Vasilisa was tired of waiting. Petya wasn't…progressing quickly enough for her. So she took him away. For testing."

She paused. "The building…exploded during an attack. I wasn't able to find any evidence that Petya was alive, and no one else questioned his death." She kept the explanation short.

"But HYDRA took him," Bucky said solemnly.

"Yes," Natasha said painfully. "I only found out earlier today. There was a report, in the SHIELD files." It was clear she wasn't saying everything she wanted to. Bucky understood. There were too many people around to be more personal.

"And you said he was moved?"

"Another report detailed a break-in. Rescue of an American citizen. After the rescue, they had to close down the facility. They'd have to have moved him."

Bucky felt a little hope fill him, and he met Natasha's eyes again. "Is it possible the Americans might have him?"

Natasha nodded slowly. "Maybe… Americans would probably take a child if they saw one… And there was no mention of Petya in the online files at all. They kept him off-record."

"If he was taken, it was likely the army," Steve said, looking between them both. "They carry out rescues."

"I would know if SHIELD was behind it," Natasha agreed. Bucky guessed that she'd ruled that out on the plane ride to Venezuela.

"Tony can help us know for sure," Steve hinted unsubtly, and Natasha conceded with a sigh.

"Tony Stark?" Bucky guessed tentatively. When Steve looked a little surprised, he elaborated. "He's in the papers a lot."

"Ah," Steve said, understanding. "Yes, that's Tony. He should be able to find the right files for us."

"I'm surprised at you, Steve," Natasha teased. Bucky noted that she appeared more relaxed as the more emotional conversation was left behind. It was easier to mask her worry with the subject not being discussed. "Hacking the government…"

"It's necessary," Steve said, rolling his eyes. "'s not like we'll take anything."

"No, we'll just borrow," she said, and Sam snickered, obviously knowing what was behind the words. Bucky smiled slightly, remembering how much Steve could bend the rules when he found it necessary. That was the whole reason the Howling Commandos were formed.

"If you want to take the long route, then by all means…" Steve said, raising his hands in mock surrender.

The girl and Vision looked slightly bemused by this side of Steve, but Natasha and Sam only teased him further. Bucky relaxed and watched them, letting the conversation continue without him.

\----

"If it isn't the band," Tony greeted, swiveling in his chair to face them when they entered. They'd landed at the top of Stark Tower a few minutes earlier and, after a bit of direction from FRIDAY, located Tony in his usual lair. "Oooo, a newbie," Tony exclaimed, standing and approaching as he caught sight of Djenya—Barnes. Natasha almost laughed at Barnes's slightly startled expression, quickly hidden behind cautious curiosity. Stark always left interesting first impressions. Tony shot out a hand, eyes calculating. "Tony Stark."

"Bucky Barnes," he said, reciprocating hesitantly.

Tony flashed a grin. "The Cap's right hand man." He turned away, dismissing him. "So what gives?" he addressed Steve. "Need new toys? I can have a new arm for Terminator in a few hours."

"Can you hack the army?" Steve asked.

"Who do you think I am?" Tony scoffed. "Their security's a joke."

Steve hummed skeptically.

"Cute," Tony snorted, already pulling out his phone and fiddling away. "I need a name."

"You're already in?"

"That's getting less and less funny by the second, Capsicle."

Natasha answered before they could start bickering or flirting or whatever they were doing. "Paul Loveberry. He was rescued from a HYDRA base in 2004."

Tony stopped immediately. "You're shitting me," he deadpanned. He barely waited a second before shaking his head and turning back to his phone. "God. Don't tell me he's an actor. He's already a walking Hallmark ad. _Someone_ needs to look into changing their name… ah." Tony flicked his phone, and a hologram appeared above his screen. It showed a standard military file. "The rescue of Mr. Loveberry." He announced, scrolling down the file. "Interesting. Looks like the CIA took an active role. Unusual for them."

Natasha snatched the phone away, Barnes peering over her shoulder to look as well.

"Thief," Tony protested immediately, pointing at her childishly.

"They don't mention Petya," Natasha said after she absorbed the document. She and Barnes shared a glance.

"Cover up?" Barnes said without certainty.

"With the CIA..." Natasha said, leaving the comment open-ended, but it was looking more and more like their hope was useless.

"Sounds kinky," Tony commented, stealing back his phone, and Natasha sent him her most scathing expression. "Ouch. CIA next, then?" he said already typing again.

"How are you getting into their systems so quickly?" Wanda asked curiously. Natasha was slightly surprised. Even with them now being allies, she was usually a little stiffer around Stark, more formal.

"Already had back doors in place," Tony said casually, pausing to glance at her. His face was unreadable as he went back to typing. "Though the feds have more encryptions once you're in. Intelligence and all that. What's with all the secrecy anyway?" he said, switching his focus back to them abruptly. "Joining the criminal masses? I almost thought Steve was the pirate when he first called up."

Steve glanced at Natasha tentatively. "We're looking for a kid taken by HYDRA."

"Our kid," Natasha said, gesturing between Barnes and her. She pushed down her discomfort. It still seemed too personal to say aloud, even out in the open as it was.

Tony became uncharacteristically serious. "Petya?" he said, repeating the name from earlier. His accent was slightly off but better than most. "How old was he?"

"Two," Natasha said simply. "He would— _is_ fourteen now."

Tony nodded and pulled up the hologram again, handing the phone over voluntarily this time. "This is it."

"Thank you," Natasha said sincerely, letting the words encompass how she felt about his entire reaction so far. He hadn't offered up empty condolences and hadn't joked or questioned her. It was nice.

She flicked through the file quickly. "There's nothing," she said, spirits sinking. She kicked herself. She should never have let herself hope HYDRA didn't have Petya in the first place. She wasn't that lucky. "No mention of him."

"So HYDRA must still have him," Steve said, resigned.

Natasha nodded and pushed aside her fear and disappointment. "The facility the took him to closed down after Loveberry was rescued. He'd have been taken somewhere nearby though. The researchers wouldn't want to relocate too far, certainly not over the border. Not unless he was given over to another group."

"If the CIA _did_ rescue him," Rhodey said, contributing for the first time, "and they followed protocol, beyond the cover-up, they would have handed him over to the Russian authorities since he was on their soil. The authorities were involved in the rescue, right?"

"They were notified of the rescue beforehand," Natasha said. They were given few details, but they were still notified.

"That might explain why the kid wasn't in the file," Tony said. "Lazy reporting."

But the idea seemed unlikely now. They were grasping at straws.

"Either way, Petya's in Russia somewhere," Barnes said.

"HYDRA is our best lead," Natasha said. "We should search for people were previously placed at this location. They will have more info."

"And it wouldn't be a bad idea to check the facility," Bucky added more hesitantly. "It's unlikely, but they may have left something behind."

Natasha nodded and then paused. "Before looking into HYDRA, we should at least check things here," she said slowly, tentatively. "The CIA would most likely have handed him over to another organization. Child Services either here or in Russia."

"I'll check it out," Tony said, shrugging. "Should be simple enough."

"Search using Pyotr too," Natasha said. "That was his full first name."

"Got it," Tony said and began to shoo them out. "Now go eat, plot, whatever."

"Kicking us out?" Rhodey said, slightly amused.

Tony smirked. "Even a genius needs his space to work sometimes, Platypus. Go."

The crowd began to push out of the room, grumbling and teasing and saying their goodbyes.

"Don't have too much fun without me," Tony called behind them, and the door whooshed shut, cutting them out.

"Typical," Steve said, smiling, and Rhodey snorted his agreement.

"I'll begin looking into who was placed there at the facility," Natasha said, starting towards her usual guest room.

"Wait," Steve said, reaching out to her. She turned back. "You should eat and sleep before you get into this. We all should," he said, eyeing Barnes who looked about ready to hide away and research too. "It was a long night."

"We don't have much time," Natasha said, letting some of her worry show.

"He's been missing a long time," Steve said softly. "The lead won't disappear overnight, not after a decade." Natasha turned away, understanding his point but unable to get rid of the anxiety and need to start searching immediately. Steve sighed and switched strategies. "We'll work better, _together_ , after some rest."

Natasha sighed and motioned him forward. She'd eat while she researched to keep him happy.

\----

Bucky paced in the room he'd been given, back and forth, back and forth. He couldn't concentrate on, couldn't _think_ about anything but Petya, his son, this his child he knew nothing about.

He yearned to know more, but he couldn't get up the nerve to ask Natasha. It was so much—he _should_ have known. What if he'd met Petya in HYDRA and hadn't realized? There had been that one kid with the enhanced parents, the one who's situation had bugged Bucky so much he'd been wiped. What if that had been Petya? He could have rescued Petya from HYDRA _years_ ago. How could he not have known?

He should have known.

Bucky paced and paced and paced. What did Petya look like now? Back then? What was he like? Did he enjoy anything? Did he not know because HYDRA didn't allow it? Did he think about his parents at all? Had he given up on ever seeing them?

Natasha had said he was fourteen now. _Fourteen_.

Bucky stopped pacing suddenly, frozen, eyes closed. He needed to talk to Natasha. He _needed_ to.

Fist clenching and unclenching nervously, he silently opened his door and walked into the hallway. He'd knew her room, saw he walk in and close the door after grabbing some food from the kitchen. The floor was quiet, but Bucky could hear soft sounds coming from her room. Tapping. She was still awake.

Bucky stood before her door, staring at the wood. He raised his hand to knock, dropped it, stepped back. Shaking his head, he stepped forward again.

He knocked.

The tapping stopped, and there was a silent pause before he heard her stand and shuffle up. The door opened.

She peeked out, expression softening when she saw it was him. "Come in," she said, opening the door wider. Bucky swallowed nervously and stepped past her.

The room was simple and largely undecorated. Almost everything was white, from the bedspread, to the walls, to the window curtains, and the rest of the room was light gray. It matched the rest of the compound well, light and open.

Bucky turned back to Natasha, who'd walked to pair of chairs in one corner, gesturing for him to follow. Her bright, red hair contrasted the room sharply, almost making him smile, but he was too nervous. He sat in the chair across from her.

He looked at his hands, trying to figure out how to start.

"I'm sorry," Natasha said suddenly, and Bucky looked up, brow creasing. She was looking at the window, shoulders turned in just slightly. Her eyes flicked to him and then away again. "I should—" she swallowed. "I should never have stopped looking for him."

"That's not your fault," Bucky said immediately. "You didn't—at least, you tried. You couldn't have done more. _I'm_ the one who should be sorry."

"You didn't—"

"I should've realized," Bucky said. "He was in HYDRA…I should—I should've realized."

Natasha didn't respond for a long time. Finally, she whispered, "If it wasn't my fault, it wasn't yours either."

Bucky ducked his head, hands gripping the chair tightly. They both considered her words silently, neither fully convinced but content with it for now.

"What was Petya like?" Bucky asked softly after a pause.

Natasha sighed slightly, looking sad yet fond. She'd grieved for a long time. "He was so young," she started, leaning back in her chair, lost in memory. "Quiet most of the time, but you could tell it wasn't his nature. And he was so _curious_ , all the time. He used to question _everything_. He always wanted me to tell him stories," she laughed slightly and met Bucky's eyes. "I'd tell him stories about you most often, good stories." Bucky's heart felt tight.

"He always wanted to know about the outside world," she continued, eyes growing sadder again. "We—we weren't allowed outside the building, so he only knew what he could see through the window. It was like an alien world for him." She laughed again, suddenly. "I remember, one time, I was trying to explain animals to him… He was so confused; he asked if the _guards_ were a type of animal since they never spoke around us. I didn't even _try_ to explain parrots to him…" She shook her head, laughing again.

Bucky smiled, and when she didn't speak again in the next moment, he said quietly, "Thank you."

Natasha smiled, understanding completely, and told him more stories.


End file.
